


Life with you

by FlashMountain



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Different ratings for every chapter, Drabbles, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fic, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22836106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain/pseuds/FlashMountain
Summary: A collection of prompts and drabbles I've uploaded on tumblr
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Eleven | Jane Hopper & Billy Hargrove
Comments: 55
Kudos: 158





	1. Goin' stag - prom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles, you can find 'em and more on my tumblr @awickedplacethisis
> 
> This is on here 'cause the one and only @um_no_thanks :)

Ever since he was a kid, Steve’s kinda assumed he’d do the whole _prom_ thing. He’d ask out the girl of his dreams in a way that’d make her _swoon_ , they’d dance all night, possibly win prom king and queen, and Steve’d have photo booth pictures tacked on his wall until he moved away for college. 

Yeah. _That_ worked out. 

Now, Steve’s not even sure he’s _going_. It seems pointless, _lame_ , after what he’s seen. And going alone was just never an option. He doesn’t have the dream girl. He _barely_ has the _guy_ he’s dreaming of on the regular, dreams that he wakes up _panting_ from. Billy isn’t his _boyfriend_ , just ‘cause he lets Steve fuck him in the Beamer or ‘cause he’s taken over half of Steve’s bedroom drawers, stuffed ‘em with band tees and shirts too tight for _Steve_ , and _very_ poorly hidden skinmags. 

Even if he _were_ , there’s no way in hell they’d even get the chance to go to prom, _together_. Whatever. Billy hates all that _cheesy shit_ , anyway. 

Turns out he _is_ going, and giving Billy a _ride_ at that. It’s _easier_ , and it means Billy can get _fucked up,_ apparently. Billy’s going stag. ‘Cause he’s a young, hot blooded American, he’s _free_ and hot and yeah, of _course_ he’s going stag. He’s looking all intense, at Steve, when he’s telling him. And _yeah_ , message received. Billy’s stag, just in _general_. _Free_. 

“ _Fuck_ , it’s gonna be so nice, no chick beggin’ me to dance all the goddamn time, I’m tellin’ ya, Stevie, goin’ stag is the way to _be_ ”, and _Jesus_ , Billy’s _never_ talked this much with him, he’s just _really_ trying to get his point across, like he thinks Steve’s so _stupid_ he doesn’t fucking get it.

“I _get_ it, you’re fucking _single_ , jesus”, Steve’s interrupting him, and it’s a relief that Billy shuts up, after that. Even though the way his jaw ticks makes Steves stomach churn.

-

Prom is all cheesy pop songs and ugly balloons, the gym filled with sweaty guys and dolled up girls. 

Steve and Billy are sitting at an empty tables, the people sitting there before scared off by Billy. Steve’s nursing a lukewarm coke, Billy taking long drags from his flask, not even bothering to hide it. ‘Cause he’s so _cool_ and all. No ones gonna tell him _shit_.

Girls keep makin’ their way over, asking Billy to dance to their _favorite song,_ getting the same _sorry sweetheart_ rejection. Martha P. shrugs off hers, turns to Steve with an _oh well_ , says “you wanna dance?”, and listen, being second choice isn’t really something Steve _likes_ , but he’s _bored_ and Billy’s been talking about how fucking _amazing_ going stag is, so he tells her that _yes, he’d love to_. Ignores the way Billy’s eyes burn a hole in the back of his head.

Steve kinda forgot that he _likes_ dancing. It’s _fun_ , swaying Martha P. around like they’re in some competition, laughing and shaking his head until his hair’s all wild. They dance through five songs, until Martha thanks him and finds her friends, shooting him some kinda look from across the floor. He makes his way over to their table, chest heaving and cheeks all red from the warmth. He locks eyes with Billy, gets _lost_ a little, in that icy blue. Billy doesn’t return his smile, his jaw just _ticks_ , like that. And he leaves. Elbows his way through dancing couples, leaves through the lockerroom door a piece of paper spelling out _do not enter_ taped to it. _Weird_.

Steve follows him, ignores his parched throat and tired feet. It’s cold, in the lockerrooms, no body heat or shower steam to warm it up. Billy’s lighting up a cigarette, like the fire alarm won’t go off. _Idiot_.

“What’s up?”, Steve starts, ‘cause something is _up_ , with the way Billy’s all tense, fucking _pissed_ _off_. Billy doesn’t answer, just scoffs and sucks on his cigarette, like the cheap ones he buys don’t taste like _garbage_. “Why’re you all pissy? You were all about prom in the car, why-”

“You have fun with _Martha_?”, it’s all venom, all harsh and _spitting_ , and those eyes are all fire and ice, _furious_.

“What? You turned her down man, come on”, and Steve can’t really _deal_ with Billy’s macho shit, today. Can’t deal with his _shit_ , his _hints_ and the way he thinks he fucking owns the right to be a _dick_. “ _Ninety nine percent_ of all the girls here tonight are drooling over you, why do you care if I danced with _one_ , Jesu-”

“I didn’t come here with those girls”, Billy’s _snarling_ , and Steve’s so damn _tired_ of _his shit._

“Yeah, I _know_. You’re going _stag_ , shit man, I got the fucking message”, and he _does_ , get it, that Billy’s not his fucking _boyfriend_ , or whatever.

“No, _we’re_ going stag”, Billy’s saying, like that explains _shit_ about why he’s looking like hell’s about to freeze over. “ _Together_ ”

And, “what?” Steve doesn’t _get_ it, ‘cause Billy’s not making any fucking _sense_ , of _course_ they went together, Billy said he needed a fucking _ride_ and he _got_ one.

“You could’ve told me you didn’t want to, Harrington. Could’ve told me you didn’t want to and I’d have a whole fucking _evening_ saved, instead of having to be at this shit”, and Billy’s pacing, as he’s talking, not still for a single second. “I could’ve saved so much _time_ , if you just told me that you don’t fucking _want_ me, _fuck_. I wouldn’t have to do all this shit, wouldn’t have to fall in fucking _love_ with you if you just _told_ me that you-”

“What did you just say?”, and Steve’s heart is _racing_ , breath too loud, echoing. ‘Cause Billy said he- _fuck_. Steve’s _terrified_ , doesn’t know if Billy even means it. If he’s just talking _shit_ to get a rise outta him.

“Forget it, Harrington”, Billy sounds _seething_ but looks wary, eyes darting between him and the exit, like he wants to make a run for it. And Steve _can’t_ let him run, not after _that_ , can’t be _left_ , like that.

“I’m crazy about you”, he blurts out, and he wants to say so much _more_ , wants to say _I think I might love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone_ , but he _can’t_ , ‘cause it’s too _much_ and too _new_ , terrifying. “I wanted to go with you, not _stag_ , or _whatever_ the fuck. I want- I want _you_ ”, Steve’s never been good with words, he just hopes he’s saying the right ones, hopes the _truth’ll_ make Billy stay.

Billy’s eyes are all big, cheeks stained red. “You for real?”, and Steve doesn’t know how to show him he’s _for real,_ with _words_. So he just, _grabs_ him, pulls him close, kisses him. Tries to show him with the way his hands are grasping Billy’s jaw, the way his tongue traces familiar patterns in Billy’s mouth, like he’s been doing for _months_ , but it’s never been so _intense_ , it’s never been so _vital_ that Billy gets the _message_.

Billy’s pulling him _closer_ , arms tight around Steve’s back like he’s _never_ gonna let go, and Steve’s _fine_ with that, even if they’re in the fucking _lockerroom_ , in their _stupid_ prom suits, even if Billy’s breath tastes like the whiskey he stole from Steve’s _dad_.

And Steve knows he’s always too _needy_ , always asks to many questions, but he can’t _help_ it when he starts,

“Does this mean-”

“No”, and

“But-”,

“ _No_ ”, and Billy’s pressing kisses to his lips, shutting him right up. He strays, lips trailing down his throat, nips at his jaw like _that_.

“You don’t even know what I wanna _say_ ”, Steve starts, but he’s all breathless, kinda forgetting what he’s _thinking_ about.

“Is it more important than me sucking your dick?” Is paired with a strategically placed grope, and _yeah_ , Steve’s forgotten _all_ about what he’s thinking about.

At least, everything that isn’t _Bill, oh god, Billy_


	2. Blind date trope

Steve’s not a pushover, okay? He can stand his ground, say _no_ and tell people to shove off, if he’d want to. He usually _doesn’t_ , cause he’s a nice guy like that. The _nicest_. Now though, he feels like a damn pushover.

Those _hopeful_ eyes were hard to resist, and he was practically being _begged_. And who has he to resist that final _come_ on _, dingus, it’s free food,_?

So he’s sitting there, in his nicest jeans and a clean sweater that felt too tight at the collar. Waiting on his date. His _blind date_ , set up by one Robin Buckley. Robin, and her obsession with getting Steve laid. It’s not like he needs _help_ in that department. He’s just been too _busy_ being an adult and working and _doing_ shit, he doesn’t have the _time_ to pull chicks left and right like he did in high school. And he _loves_ Rob, he does, but he really doesn’t need her to _remind_ him of how he’s still _alone_ , even if his dating pool’s _expanded_ since Hawkins high.

His date is late, and it’s not like Steve had any _expectations_ , but he’s getting _hungry_ and the tab’s on Rob, so he’s gonna treat himself. His leg is jiggling, _thump, thump, thumping_ into the table. _7:15. 7:23. 7:31._

“You’re at the wrong table, man”, his eyes snap away from the clock and up to meet eyes so _blue_ , eyes belonging to _Billy Hargrove_. He shouldn’t be so shocked, every time he sees him. Billy’s been living in LA ever since _That_ _Summer_ , left as soon as the lab let him go. Didn’t take the detour into Hawkins. He did tell Max, that he was leaving. And she told _them_ , ‘cause that’s how shit _works_ when you’re all bound together by shared trauma and monsters. Steve moved a year later, well, he kinda just _followed_ Robin. Followed her to LA where she’d go to college and he’d be _not_ _lonely_.

“I’m not, this is table _33_. _My_ table”, and Steve sounds _way_ to invested in this table, but it’s _his_ table, and there’s something about Billy Hargrove that brings out Steve’s over investment in tables and makes shivers shoot down his spine, even though he’s sweating in his too thick sweater.

“You must’ve misread, pretty boy, it’s not your table” Hargroves saying, leering like some kinda asshole. _Fuck_ that guy, Steve’s getting ready to say, when something weird happens to Hargroves face. A blush dusts his chekbones, lips pursing and eyebrows shooting up. It’s _weird_. “Well shit”, he says, and that _also_ weird, until Steve _gets_ it. _Shit_.

He gets out a _Robin_ at the same time Billy’s growling _fuckin’ Buckley_. That girl is some kinda _demon_. Setting him up with _Billy Hargrove_. Setting him, a _dude_ , up with the guy who beat Tommy’s _face_ in after practice for lingering too long, for _looking_. Hargrove looks too calm, too _okay_ , as he reaches for the chair right across from Steve, and sits down. The table is small, and their legs are all close, and Steve’s kinda _freaking_ _out_ ‘cause it’s Billy _fucking_ Hargrove.

“Why’d she set _me_ up with _you_?” He says, his brain to mouth filter blown to bits. Hargrove scoffs at that, but he looks too _fine_ , sitting there in a dumb button down, all loose, unbuttoned to expose his collarbones and nothing else.

“You disappointed?”, he gets back, paired with one of those fucking _tongue wags_. He blames the stuffiness of the restaurant for the way his cheeks are too hot.

“I mean, you’re…” Steve trails off, ‘cause he doesn’t know what to _say_. _You’re straight? You’re the guy who beat my face in three years ago?_ And it’s almost like Billy can _hear_ the questions, ‘cause his face closes off, smile dropping and eyes turning cold.

“Listen, I get why you’re not into this, but I’m as gay as they fuckin’ make ‘em, alright? If that’s what you’re _doubting_ ”, and he’s all sharp, teeth snapping and body tense. There’s a _confession_ there too though, something Steve never thought he’d hear from _Hargrove_. Something a little _soft_ , all hidden away.

“I got a feeling Robin’s gonna know if we ditch on this, dude”, he says, ‘cause he feels a little _raw_ , and he can’t really think of leaving, without even _dipping his toes_ in some fantasy he never reflects over having. The smile he gets makes his stomach flutter and mouth quirk without his permission.

-

It’s too _easy_ , talking and laughing with Billy Hargrove. Time goes by too fast, when Steve’s _deep_ in those blue eyes, when Billy’s looking at him like he’s something _else_.

They’re walking slow, vaguely in the direction of home. The turn Steve has to take to get back to his place inches closer. He doesn’t wanna leave, the bubble they’ve created pleasant and nice, and Billy’s warm and all smiley next to him. There’s a hand on his arm, burning through his coat, stopping him. Billy’s _soft_ , under the golden light of lampposts.

“Hey” he starts, and his voice is all smooth, makes Steve _melt_ , a little, “I had real fun tonight”, and it’s a _confession_ , something vulnerable again.

“Yeah, you can never go wrong with free food” Steve says, just to be an asshole, and he gets a shove for his troubles. Billy pulls him close though, doesn’t let him stumble. They’re _real_ close, close enough for Steve to be able to count the _freckles_ on Billy’s red stained cheeks.

Something changes, goes from buttery soft to some crackling type of _electricity_ , stealing his breath away. They’re _so close_ , pressed together, heat seeping through jackets.

“You wanna walk me home?” Billy’s whispering, breath fanning over Steve’s face, and he _knows_ this trick, but it’s so easy to _fall_ for when it’s _Billy_ and his _stupidly_ blue eyes.

“You think I’m that easy?”, Steve’s saying, and he’s _totally_ that easy, for _Billy Hargrove_ and his smiles and burning touch. Billy _knows_ that, too, ‘cause he just _smirks_ like that, and _yeah_ , Steve’s fucking _easy_.

Kissing Billy is like breathing, like _relief_. He’s surprised that Billy doesn’t push him away, where they stand so close on a too empty, too peaceful street. Maybe he’s come a _long_ way, from _high school,_ ‘cause Billy just keeps pulling him _closer_ , hands grasping his jacked, lips giving in to the pressure of Steve’s tongue.

“Come back to mine”, Billy gets out, so close his lips brush Steve’s with every word. And Steve doesn’t really have anything to _say_ , he’s kinda _out of the loop_ , after being kissed like he’s some kinda _answer_ to a question Billy’s been asking all his _life_.

-

It’s not the walk of shame. It’s _not_ , just ‘cause Steve’s wearing the same jeans as yesterday, hair all fucked up from stale product and sweat. ‘Cause he didn’t sneak out, _couldn’t_ , with the way Billy was _hugging_ him, weight pinning him to the mattress. He only left after breakfast, toast and coffee and something in the air, sweet as honey. He only left after a goodbye kiss and a _I know you have my number baby, use it._

That doesn’t make it less _embarrassing_ , making eye contact with Robin from where she’s sitting at their kitchen table. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t _have_ to. Her _demonic_ little smirk is enough, and the way her eyes travel from his hair to his bruised neck and _bitten_ shoulder, peeking out from the t-shirt he stole from Billy, makes him wanna fucking _hide_.

And _yeah_ , she won this time. She _won_ and she’ll use this to her advantage, he _knows_ that. But he can’t help that he’s just a little _happy_ , that she _won_.


	3. Don't trust art majors - spin the bottle + "you call that a kiss?"

Billy should’ve learned his lesson by now. Never trust an arts major. He’d been lured in with the promise of _free booze_ and _It’ll be fun_. By now he should’ve known to never trust Buckley. The party fuckin’ _blows_ , it shouldn’t even be allowed to be called a _party_. Rob’s artsy friends are all there, sipping some hipster, soap tasting beer and smoking overpriced fuckin’ weed they got from some dealer who knows how to get his money.

At least _Harrington’s_ there. So. He _shouldn’t_ , he’s not even _in_ college, he just kinda _tags_ _along_ , wherever Robin goes. And Billy can’t really complain, ‘cause a lot of the time that’s where _he_ is too. So yeah. Billy’s got some goddamn eyecandy, at least. Steve’s high, eyes all glassy. Too distracted to notice how Billy’s _starin_ ’, which is real convenient for Billy. He _allows_ himself to stare, to take in the slope of Steve’s nose and jaw and throat. Eyes tracing the few moles he can see, in the dim lighting. He knows there’s more. Smaller ones that he’d only see if he was _real_ close. He imagines his hands in that hair instead of him just looking, like the sad fucker he became when he started hanging out with a fucking _liberal arts major._

Said _asshole_ is makin’ some kinda _noise_ , catching everyone’s attention from where she’s perched on some ugly dinner table.

“Everyone, _everyone_! Listen up! _We_ , are going to play _spin the bottle_!”, she’s yelling, _hollering_ in that way she does when she’s whine drunk and loose. It makes Billy’s ears fuckin’ hurt. Makes his head hurt too, ‘cause who plays spin the damn _bottle_ when they’re not _twelve_. Liberal fucking arts majors, apparently, ‘cause it’s meat by _whoops_ and shouts and _laughs_.

Everyone’s forced to sit in a circle on the floor, like they’re _twelve_ , and Billy briefly concisiders makin’ a run for it. Robin nails him with some kinda look, like she _knows_ what he’s thinking and that he’ll regret it. So he sits down. He’s opposite Steve, who’s got some kinda dopey grin on his face that make his eyes crinkle and cheeks go all- _fuck_. He’s _cute_ , the goddamn pretty boy.

“O- _Kay_ , we all know the rules. We spin the _bottle_ and then- _then_ you _kiss_. Yeah?” Robin’s slurring, words loud and giggly, and it’s hard not to get dragged into the enthusiasm and giggles. ‘Cause he’s always a little _proud_ , when Robin gets all social and _happy_ , ‘cause he knows how _hard_ it is for her and _shit_ , he’s too goddamn _soft_ , for that girl. For that useless, _useless_ lesbian, insisting to spin first, eyeing some girl from their shared lit class ( _her name is_ Lizz _, Billy honestly do you not even_ listen _to me)_ and probably _begging_ some kinda _goddess_ that the bottle lands on her.

It lands on some kinda blue haired wannabe punk kid, and Robin’s honest to god _gag_ makes Billy feel a little bad for the guy, but he gets a peck on the cheek and seems happy enough. _Fuckin’ losers_.

Billy looses track of the game, finds Harrington easier to focus on. He stares and _looks_ and _observes_ and tries to decipher if Steve’s eyelashes are lighter than his eyebrows. He doesn’t pay attention, until he’s getting nudged and some girl is inching closer, face all red and breath shuddering. She leans in too fast, narrowly avoiding cracking a tooth and breaking Billy’s nose. He hopes he’s not her first kiss.

He’s supposed to spin the bottle, _exiting_ , and he doesn’t _care_ but he does it anyway ‘cause he’s gotten _soft_ , apparently. And maybe Robin’s _useless_ gay goddess mixed it up, answered _his_ unsent prayers instead of _hers_ , ‘cause it lands on Harrington. _Fuckin’ Harrington_.

If that doesn’t make Billy’s heart race. He’s come a long way, from high school and _Hawkins_. And this is _Cali_ , he’s at a party filled with artsy fuckers, and they don’t fuckin _care_ about all that shit. But it’s still _Harrington_. Steve Harrington, who was with Nancy fuckin’ _Wheeler_ all through high school. Steve Harrington, who Billy can’t stop _looking_ at.

He shuffles forward, feels fucking _awkward_ as he comes closer to Steve and his _stupid_ hair and moles and that dumb _smile_. He leans forward to quick, like he’s some _twelve year old virgin._ His lips _barely_ brush Steve’s before he’s pulling back. It’s too much. It wasn’t even a real _kiss_ and Billy’s palms are sweating, pulse speeding and fingertips numbing. He’s a fucking _moron_ , letting himself become so _soft_ for some _dumbass_ with _stupid_ hair and plush lips, lips that are quirking up into a dumb, _hot_ , smirk.

“You seriously call _that_ a kiss?“, those lips are saying, and _okay_. Pretty boy wants to fuckin’ _play_. Steve’s got his neck bared, chin up and stupid _King Steve_ smirk in place, _taunting_ him.

“Doesn’t meet your standards, _princess_?”, he says, too breathy and _soft_. Too fucking _affected_ from not even a _real_ kiss. Billy’s a fucking _moron_ , for letting himself become _this_.

“Hard no, on that one. Was that your first kiss, or what?”, and it’s always a _rush_ , to remember what a _brat_ Steve can be, to remember that he’s a goddamn _trust fund baby_ with too much imagination.

“Fuck you”, he fuckin’ _growls_ back, and he’s kinda forgetting that there’s an _audience_ , everyone else just _melted_ away. Melts away when he’s with _Steve_.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you”, says the fuckin’ _brat_ , and Billy can’t _stand_ him. He grabs him, pulls him in by the hair and _kisses_ him. No preamble, tounge parting those too pink lips and licking into that mouth before Steve can react. It’s a heady feeling, tasting Steve, _exploring_ Steve. His hands tighten in that _stupid_ soft hair, and tries to suppress a grin when Steve _whines_ , real low.

“How’s that for a fuckin’ kiss?” He’s saying, _panting_ , when he _drags_ his lips away from Steve’s. It’s _hard_ to not just dive right back in, when Steve’s lips are all puffy and pink and slick. It’s _alarming_ , how Steve can look so fucked out and still regain some of that _King Steve_ shit. There’s _something_ in those big eyes, something that makes heat run right down Billy’s spine, when Steve leans _real_ close and whispers _right_ into his ear,

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that to get me, _baby_ ”

And it’s _easy_ to forget about their fucking _audience_ , even when he hears shouts and wolf whistles, ‘cause the whole world just _fades away_ , when he’s got _Steve Harrington_ so damn _close_.


	4. "come near me again and I'll kiss the shit outta you"

_“Alright cupcakes, hit the showers. Don’t wanna see your faces more than I have to”_

And if that doesn’t make Steve breathe out a little heavier, with relief. He’s _shaking_ , legs wobbling and chest heaving from fucking _military level training_ , probably. Coach’s not holding back this year. Steve’s _last_ goddamn year.

“Those legs look a little wobbly, _Bambi_ ” and _god_ , that _annoyingly_ rumbly voice is too close, Hargrove practically panting down his neck. Completely _annoying_. Steve shrugs him off, ‘cause there’s not much else he can _do_ , when it comes to Billy _fucking_ Hargrove. He likes his face enough to spare it from _two_ beatings.

He takes his time, stretches all lazy and calms himself down, before hitting the showers. By then, he’s basically alone, everyone else already dressing and heading out. _Almost_ everyone. And listen, Steve’s a little disoriented, head all _fuzzy_ from running what had to be _eighty_ laps around the ugly basketball court. So he doesn’t really realize that he goes for the shower _right_ next to Billy _fucking_ Hargrove. And he’s too _tired_ to switch spots, doesn’t wanna look like a _bitch_ , too scared to shower ( _naked_ ) next to _Hargrove_.

It’s almost _nice_ , the showers, when it’s near empty. He can take his time, massaging his scalp when he rubs the shampoo in, lets himself relax under the pressure and heat. Let’s himself go a little pliant, muscles all loose, until he hears a,

“ _Jesus_ , Harrington, why you gotta be so damn _close_ for?”, which is more of a goddamn _grunt_ than actual words, and he almost _forgot_ , that he’s not alone.

“You can _literally_ move”, he answers, without looking at Billy, ‘cause that’s the first and like, _only_ rule. No looking. And he _follows_ that rule. He _does._

“I was here first” that gruff voice answers, ‘cause Billy’s a fucking jerk. _Hargrove_. _Fuck_.

“Well you’re fucking annoying” Steve doesn’t really know why he’s still _talking_ , ‘cause it’s _weird_. But he can’t _stop_. Maybe he has some kinda deathwish, riling Billy _fucking_ Hargrove up like that. He sways on his feet, the exhaustion in his bones and the pleasant heat of the showers making him a bit _loopy_. He sways, bumps _right_ into Billy’s naked, _naked_ chest.

“The _fuck_?”, it echoes, bounces from tile to tile, and Steve looks over to Hargrove. _Breaks the rules_. Steve can’t really _stop_ looking, at the curls plastered to Billy’s face, at his _blue_ eyes. At his naked fucking body. He’s too buff for a teenager, too built and _smooth_ and fucking _golden_. And Steve can’t stop _looking_.

Hargrove _knows_ that he’s looking. Steve sees it in those eyes, the way Billy takes in _Steve’s_ hungry look. He’d probably get punched for what he’s doing, if they weren’t in the gym locker rooms. If they weren’t so _close_ , in the _showers_. Maybe he wouldn’t get punched at _all_ , ‘cause Billy licks his lip in that way he _always_ does, tounge wagging and teasing. Maybe a punch isn’t on the table, here.

“Come near me again and I’ll kiss the shit outta you.“ Billy’s saying, and _yeah_. No punches. _Definitely_ not, ‘cause Billy’s all dewy, liquid _gold_ and fucking _flirting_. With _Steve_. But Steve’s always been a little _slow on the uptake_ , always gazed over details that kicked him in the ass later on.

"Don’t you mean ‘kick?’” He’s saying, just to be _sure_ , even though he’s pretty damn sure. Billy steps close, too close, leans into the spray of Steve’s shower instead of his own.

"No”, and Steve already _knew_ the answer, he _saw_ it in those _blue_ eyes, in the way those eyes trailed over him with the same _hunger_ he’d been watching Billy. So the word is barely said, before Steve’s reaching out. Until he has two fingers pressed against Billy’s smooth, water slick chest. Two fingers that turn into an open palm, grasping and _groping_ at that golden skin.

And well, Billy is a man of his fucking _word_ , so he leans closer. Presses his _soft_ lips to Steve’s, presses _real_ close and kisses him like it’s the first and _thousandth_ time he’d done it. Tongue twining with his own, exploring just like broad hands explore Steve’s chest, his hips. And Steve’s pressing right back, drawing Billy in _closer_ with a hand all tangled up in those curls, another curling around a too tan hipbone. It’s too _easy_ , to be _real_ close under the hot spray of the shower, skin sliding and noses bumping and hips moving in a way that makes Steve’s eyes roll _right_ to the back of his _head_. 

Steve’s kinda _loopy_ all day, hazy and _fuzzy_ , like there’s no blood in his head and no strength in his muscles. The subtle throb of a hickey on his throat and the flush on his cheeks reminds him that it’s definitely _not_ ‘cause of _practice_.


	5. Blissful life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: "Do you even know how to act like a real person" and "stop touching my butt"

When Steve’d called him up, said, _come over, help me bake?_ Billy kinda assumed there wasn’t _actually_ gonna be baking involved. He _kinda_ assumed it was some weird fuckin’ code for, _come over, suck my dick?_

Yet here he is, in that big, pristine kitchen, _baking_. Steve’s helping the brats with some kinda bake sale, like he’s their _actual_ mother. It’s _weird_. It’s too fucking endearing. He doesn’t know _shit_ about baking, but it’s _fun_ , following Steve around when he paces between bowls of batter and bags of whatever the fuck he’s usin’. 

The fourth time Steve catches him eatin’ some kinda brownie batter, a sad weedless brownie, he gets a smack on his arm and a,

“Oh my _god_ , you’re literally gonna get sick”, and it’s kinda hard to take Steve _seriously_ , when he’s got flour all over his face, in his damn hair. 

“The _secret_ , pretty boy, is to eat it all _real_ quick, so you don’t get sick”, he’s sayin’ all secretive, just to see those eyebrows climb up, to hear that _huff_.

“You’re full of shit, man. If you’re just gonna sabotage, get outta my kitchen”, and there’s no way in _hell_ Billy’s gonna leave, he’s _real_ fine with staying where _Steve_ is. _Real_ fine with pokin’ at Steve until he _snaps_ , gives in and _has his way_ with Billy. 

“ _Fine_ ”, he _drawls_ in that way Steve said _gets me fucking hot, man,_ “if I can’t eat _this_ , I guess I’ll just eat _you_ ”, and it’s horrible, the worst line Billys _ever_ fuckin’ used, but it’s worth it to see that blush color Steves cheeks red. He leans in _real_ close, until he’s sharin’ breath with Steve. Leans _just_ a little closer, and Steve’s closing his eyes, expecting a kiss. Billy ducks, _licking_ down Steve’s throat, _reveling_ in the shriek he gets. 

“Jesus _fuck_ , Billy, do you even _know_ how to act like a _normal_ person?”, his voice is all high, _hysterical_ in that hilarious way. “ _fucking dog_ ”, he continues, and _what_? Billy’s supposed to _resist_ somethin’ like that? He _bites_ down on Steves jaw, enough for him to feel it.

“fuckin’ _woof_ ” he whispers, all dewy, and Steves shovin’ him off, laughing and blushing, frown doing _nothing_ to stave off Billy’s wandering hands. 

“Man, cut it out, I need to do this”, and Steve’s commitment is _cute_ , alright? But _shit_ , Billy’s datin’ a goddamn _housewife_ , ovenmitts and all. 

“ _Why_? You know you’re not, like, their _actual_ dad?” Billy is _not_ whining, he _doesn’t_ whine. It’s not something he _does_ , ‘cause he’s got fuckin’ _dignity_ , alright?

“’Cause I _promised_ , asshole”, and Steves not lookin’ at him, he’s bending down to open the oven, to check on whatever the fuck’s in there, and Billy’s only a _mortal_ , he can’t fuckin’ help it. 

“Fuck _off_ , stop touching my butt”, Steve’s squeaking, puttin’ the pan on the counter before turnin’ around to _glare_ right at him. He’s too goddamn cute. Billy licks his lips, _knows_ how he looks doin’ that shit, says, 

“Yeah? That’s not what you were sayin’ last night, sugar”, and it’s too damn _easy_ to make that boy blush, all the way down to his _stomach_ (Billy’s checked, _thoroughly_ , how far that blush stretches). 

“I did not say _shit_ , last night”, Steve’s defending himself, arms crossed, chin all high.

“Actions speak louder than words, _baby_ ”, and Steve just, _pushes_ Billy right up against the wall, face all read and eyes _burnin_ ’. Lips _hot_ against his neck, and Billy’s knees are fuckin’ _weak_. 

“I’ll show you _action_ , alright”


	6. Secret admirer

Prompts: First date and secret admirer

_Those damn shorts should be illegal_

Steve finds it in the ‘Scoops tip jar, and it’s _weird_. A note, a piece of paper, all crumpled up and _left_ there. It’s probably like, _harrasment_ in the workplace, or something? But there’s no _name_ , it doesn’t say _who’s_ shorts should be _illegal_ , or who’s so against them. It’s _weird_. He doesn’t really _do_ anything with it, throws it away and kinda _forgets_ about it.

_Best feature? It’s definitely that ass_

It’s over the line, completely fucking _weird_ , to leave notes like this at someone _workplace_. And like, Steve kinda hopes they’re not meant for _Robin_ , ‘cause he’s heard enough from Nance to know how they treat _her_ , at Hawkins post. And he doesn’t want her to have some _creep_ staring at her ass. But they’re _two_ people, working at ‘Scoops. So it’s either her or _him_ , and no ones really mentioned his ass, before. His hair _obviously_ takes the crown for best feature, though.

_I never thought I’d be so hung up over the slope of someone’s throat before_

Robin finds the next note, when she’s counting the meager tip they split between ‘em.

“Uh”, she says, and Steve almost wants to _snatch_ the note away from her, like it’s _his_. He doesn’t know if it’s ‘cause of his lack of luck with the ladies lately, or something _equally_ lame, but he feels like they’re meant for _him_. It’s _weird_. “Well, I’ve never gotten tipped with creepy notes before? That’s a first”, and it _is_ kinda creepy. In an artsy way, like whoever’s leaving these are _studying_ someone, to put them down on paper.

“Yeah, that’s happened like twice”, he starts, and _maybe_ he should’ve told her about the notes, but he never really thought as far as the fact that she’d probably find ‘em too. “It’s weird”

“This is _priceless_ , oh my god”, and Robin’s taking this _way_ too easy, reacting to notes written by some _creep_ staring at _slopes of throats_. “ _this_ is why I’m _here_ , Hairy”, and like, Steve’s given up on the fucking _nickname_ , and questioning why Robin does _anything_ is a lost ‘cause. So he keeps thoughts of _what the fuck_ to himself. 

_You’re lucky you’re cute, ‘cause bein’ friends with little kids is a_ bad _look_

And like, there’s really no question if the notes are meant for _him_ , now. And it should creep him out, it _does_ , a little, but it’s _weird_. It feels kinda _good_ , to know that there’s someone out there who thinks he’s _cute_. Someone who leaves notes for him at work, like they’re in some dumb _romcom_. Robin puts a single, wobbly line in the _you rule_ column, and Steve glares at her when she prods at his _not_ blushing cheek. 

_Your smile makes me think of home_

It’s _different_ , from the other notes. It’s softer, some kinda _confession_. It makes Steve wanna know who’s leaving these. Makes it itch in his fingers, makes some kinda _longing_ root in his stomach. There’s someone who sneaks into Scoops Ahoy, every other day, to leave notes like _this_. Someone who _likes_ him, or his _ass_ and _smile_ , at least. Someone who won’t _talk_ to him, for _real_. Girls that shy don’t usually go for guys like Steve, even _new and non asshole_ Steve. It feels _dangerous_ , to play with the _what if._ What if it’s _not_ a girl, what if it’s someone who _can’t_ just walk up and ask him out. He pretends that he doesn’t look extra hard for guys leaving something in the tip jar. 

_I wonder if you’d let me fuck you_

He’s probably doing something _illegal_ , giving away so much free ice cream. But they’re kids, _adorable_ kids. Max and El stop by often, he wouldn’t be surprised if they find themselves at the mall every single day. And like, El’s probably never even _had_ ice cream before, and her eyes are just so damn _big_. So _yeah_ , she’s getting free ice cream. This time though, _Hargrove_ is with them. He’s probably the one stuck driving them here, but he never really comes close enough for Steve to _see_ him.

But he’s _there_ , ordering _ice cream_ , voice all gruff and skin all _golden_ , from all those hours at the pool. Steve’s been hearing things about him all year, hearing _shit like have you heard?Hargrove’s dad’s a deadbeat,_ and _he’s in trouble, I saw him with chief Hopper._ Steve tries not to listen to that shit, knows how _desperate_ people are for exitement, how they lie and _bullshit_ to create a _scandal_. 

Steve doesn’t know what to _expect_ , when Billy Hargrove walks in. Turns out, he didn’t have to worry. He doesn’t look at Steve _once_. 

He finds the note when he’s closing up, and he’s so relieved Robin left early, ‘cause the way he turned red, too hot, really wasn’t his prettiest moment.

_It’s pretty damn sad how I keep leavin’ you notes even though you’d hate me if you knew me_

It’s a _rollercoaster_ , with the notes. The way the person - and he _knows_ it’s a guy, he can feel it like some _stupid_ sixth sense. He doesn’t take the time to unpack the way that knowledge sends shivers down his back, the way the guy jumps from fucking to some deep kinda longing. Steve wonders if it’s the same longing he feels, _deep_ in his gut. 

It hits him, that he doesn’t know a single thing about this person. How it could be some kinda creep or a kid with a crush or someone he’d hate. He feels like it’s not, feels some kinda connection to the stupid notes. He feels like the person leaving him notes about his smile and how it reminds ‘em of home, could be someone he could-

_I must have a damn deathwish, pretty boy. Meet me at 8, back door?_

Steve’s heart is _racing_ , when he reads the note. ‘Cause he never really thought his _secret fucking admirer_ would wanna meet him. It’s convenient, that _mystery babe -_ Robins words, _not_ his, knows when he’s off. And _back door_ can _only_ mean the employee exit by the parking lot, the one Steve _always_ leaves from.

Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he should stay in the shop, wait until whoever’s waiting for him is _gone_ , and then go on with his day. It could be _anyone_ , out there. Some kinda _creep_ or some Keith type, or _worse_ , a _girl_. But that feeling in his gut tells him that it’s not, that it’s someone who _gets_ him, _sees_ him. Someone he could _see_ _back_. His gut is probably just really fucking stupid. 

He’s sweating, when he locks down, _clicks_ off the lights, heads for the back door. Robin’s not even there for _immoral support,_ stuck with the _flu_ in the middle of goddamn summer. _Fuck it._ He’s faced monsters, he whatever’s waiting for him doesn’t hold a _candle_ to that shit. Pushing the door open, the evening breeze cooling his too hot face, and there’s someone there, leaning against the wall.

 _Pretty boy_. He should’ve fucking _realized_. He should’ve _seen_ it, _known_ it was Billy _fucking_ Hargrove. And of all the shit Steve’s been making up, this didn’t come _close_. It’s a fucking _joke_. A _prank_ , and Steve feels so fucking _stupid_. Feels stupid for _hoping_. Feels stupid for the fraction of a _second_ he felt _exitement_ , when he saw Hargrove.

“Hey”, Billy’s saying, and maybe he’s not _done_ , maybe his sick joke will play on until he’s got Steve on the fucking _ground_. “I wasn’t-”

“What the _fuck_ is this?”, Steve interupts him, ‘cause he’s so _angry_ , so _stupid_ , and he doesn’t know what kinda person would _do_ that. Write all that shit for some kinda _joke_. Billy’s faltering, eyes widening, breath fast. 

“Steve-” he starts again, and he doesn’t wanna _hear_ it. Doesn’t want to be apart of his _sick_ game, _won’t_.

“What’s _wrong_ with you, Hargrove?”, and _fuck_ , his eyes are prickling, he’s gonna fucking _cry_ , all ‘cause of Hargrove and his stupid fucking _joke_. “What kinda _sick_ -”, and he looses his words, stumbles and _stops_ , ‘cause Hargrove’s turning away, wiping his face like he’s _crying_.

“I’m sorry”, he’s saying, and everything’s changing, twisting and turning too _fast_ for Steve to get it. Billy’s _crying_ , hands shaking at his sides, and Steve doesn’t fucking get it. “I’m _sorry_ Steve, I didn’t mean to- I _can’t_ \- just, don’t _tell_ anyone, please”, he’s going too _fast_ , words spilling like the tears from his eyes, and _oh_. _Fuck_.

Billy’s _crying_ , rambling like he’s _terrified_ of something. _Of Steve._ Of _what’s wrong with you,_ and _shit_ , Steve wants to _kick_ himself. It’s not a goddamn joke. It’s _not_ , ‘cause Billy’s fucking _crying_ , and it makes Steve’s head spin. It’s _not a joke._

“ _Shit_ , Billy”, and he doesn’t even know what to say, _how_ to say it, “I thought you were _fucking_ with me” he gets out, and it’s too brash, probably doesn’t do _shit_ to soothe a crying _Billy Hargrove_.

“What?”, and Billy’s looking right at him, eyes so goddamn blue, all glassy from tears.

“I _saw_ you and I thought you were just _messing_ with me, leaving me notes like that. That’s the _sick_ shit, I thought you were playing some _sick game_ with me”, Steve has no idea if he’s help, but he can’t really stop talking once he’s started. “Those notes drove me _crazy_ , shit. Every one of ‘em made me all smiley and I couldn’t stop thinking about who’s sending them, and it’s you”

“I told you, you’d hate me if you knew”, Billy’s saying, voice all cold like he wasn’t fucking _crying_ , just before.

“I _don’t_ , Billy”, and it’s the truth, now. He doesn’t. Probably never did, not after all the shit last fall, the shit he doesn’t wanna think about. “I _really_ don’t”, and Steve’s admitting something, something he can’t _name_ , can’t put words into. Not yet.

“Fuck”, Billy breathes out, body slumping with some kinda relief that strikes something _deep_ in Steve’s chest. “I just”, and Billy’s looking for words, Steve doesn’t know if they even _exist_.

“Did you mean it?”, and Steve has to _know_ , has to know if Billy Hargrove looks at his smile and thinks of _home_ , needs to know so he can try and make him feel what Steve’s felt _every_ time he read one of those goddamn _notes_.

“Shit, _yes_.”, Billy’s still all _breathless_ , but he’s coming _closer_ , letting Steve take him in, all his golden skin and freckles and those blue, _blue_ eyes.

“That’s- good.”, Steve’s _never_ been good with words, and the way Billy’s eyes are trained on his lips is too damn distracting, he can’t _think_.

“Yeah?” Billy’s whispering, so close Steve can feel his breath. He’s so fucking _close_ , and it’s making Steve’s heart try to beat its way out of his damn chest. The kiss is chaste, just a press of lips against his and Steve’s never felt anything better. Never wants to feel anything else again. “Go on a date with me” is said right against his ear, makes him shiver. He can just nod all dumb, can’t really find any words when Billy’s nipping at his throat like that.

He has to clear his throat, once, _twice_ , before finding his voice again. “I don’t put out on the first date, though”, his voice is all cracked, wrecked from a _kiss_. The smirk he feels against his skin tells him Billy’s not buying a single damn word.

-

Steve wouldn’t call himself a liar, okay? But when he sees the fucking _picnic_ Billy’s packed up in the camaro, when they walk through the forest under the summer sunlight dyed green, it’s hard not to wanna show Billy how much he _appreciates_ it. How much he appreciates _Billy_ , the _softness_ he’s hidden under his armor of sharp teeth and sharper words.

And well, Steve’s never been good with words, but his lips and hands and body tell Billy just how much it means to him. Every touch is an _I see you_. Every kiss an _I cherish you._


	7. Found You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: 
> 
> "Just because I said I loved you one time does not mean we’re a thing” 
> 
> +
> 
> “I love you.” “That’s the dumbest shit you’ve ever said.”

He’d almost forgotten how heavy the bat feels in his hands. He’d managed to repress the sickening crunch of bones breaking and nails piercing thick skin. He’d better at _not_ waking up screaming at them to _run_. It’s all coming back, _pouring_ , tide pulling him in.

They’re surrounded on three, _four_ sides by ‘dogs. They’re smaller, all shriveled up and deformed, to _survive_. The eggs left behind when their world _burned_. _Smaller_ doesn’t mean less sharp teeth. Less terrifying _click, click, clicking_ deep in their throats.

Billy’s _panting_ next to him, hands gripping the crowbar he found in Steve’s trunk. They’re pressed close, ready to _die_ at the hand of mutated _monsters_. Steve’s _just_ gotten over the _last_ time he’d been prepared to _die_ , like this. They’re not charging, not yet, and Steve doesn’t know what they’re _waiting_ for. It’s only a matter of _seconds_ , though. Can’t let down his guard, can’t _give in._

“ _Steve_ ”, Billy’s talking, voice all strained, and Steve doesn’t take his eyes off the ‘dogs surrounding ‘em, says,

“Yeah?”, they’re gonna _die_ any time now, and Billy’s talking to him all _tense_ , like there’s something that needs to be _said_ before-

“We’re probably gonna die, here”, Billy’s wasting his last breath on pointing out the fucking _obvious_ , but Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell him that _yeah_ , he fucking _knows_. “I need to tell you something, before I go”, and _shit_ , they could be mauled by _demodogs_ any fucking _second_ , the ones _surrounding_ them, and Billy has something he needs to _say_.

“I love you”

 _Fuck_. Steve feels the grip he has on his bat falter, breath _punched_ outta him ‘cause Billy _loves him. Billy Hargrove loves him_. Billy Hargrove used his _last_ breath to tell him he _loves him._

And the ‘dogs are _charging_ , led by some kinda sign they must’ve missed, and Steve’s hitting ‘em without _seeing_ what he’s doing, head all _sideways_ ‘cause Billy Hargrove _loves_ him.

There’s too many of ‘em, even though Steve’s killed three, _four_ , and Billy’s killed twice as many. They’re gonna _die_ , _Steve’s_ gonna die knowing that Billy Hargrove _loves_ him. Steve’s gonna _die_ without getting the chance to tell him he does _too_. He _loves_ Billy, he’s in love with him, all _stupid_ for the guy who _hated_ him in High School and _lives_ with him, now.

There’s some kinda _light_ , sharp and _blinding_ , making Steve drop his bat. And that’s when he’d _die_ , when a ‘dog would open up its shriveled up petal jaws, sink into his chest. He _doesn’t_ , though, he just hears that _sickening_ crunch of bones cracking, bending.

It’s a _car_ , someone’s _there_ , running over _demodogs_ and barely missing them. Steve can make out the _Hawkins PD,_ knows it’s _Hopper_ , and he kinda wants to _sob_ , with relief. They’re _saved_.

A door swings open, and Steve’s met with big, brown eyes, and that soft smile he’s been getting from her more and more, and a,

“Found you”

-

Hoppers cabin is nicer now than it was that first time Steve saw it. It’s warm and homey and soft, and _so_ much better than being killed by shriveled up _monsters_.

El and Hopper’s in the kitchen, leaving him and Billy alone on the worn couch. They’re not talking, Billy staring straight ahead at the turned off TV set. His jaw is all _tense_ , but his ears are tinged red, and he doesn’t have those long curls anymore, to hide it.

Billy Hargrove _loves_ him. Billy Hargrove wasted his _last_ _breath_ to tell him, but they’re _not_ dead, they’re _here_ and safe and Billy _loves_ him.

“Billy?”, Steve starts, ‘cause Billy’s not gonna start a conversation like this, he _knows_ that. “Can we just-”

“ _Listen_ , just ‘cause I said I loved you, _one time,_ doesn’t mean we’re a _thing_ \- I just, we were gonna _die_ and I had to _tell_ you, okay? But we _didn’t_ die so you can just _forget_ it, it doesn’t have to be a _thing_ ”, and Billy’s rambling, in a way he _never_ does ‘cause he _always_ knows what he wants to say, doesn’t waste words for _nothing_.

“I love you”, and Steve kinda, _throws_ it out there, and he’s never been good with words, but he needs Billy to _know_. Can’t _forget_ about it, can’t let it shrivel out and be a _thing_ hanging over ‘em that they never _talk_ about. Billy’s stunned silent, mouth open and eyes all big, ears still so red.

“That’s the dumbest shit you’ve ever said”, Billy gets out, voice hoarse, not the smooth, liquid gold it usually is. “Do you even _get_ what I’m saying? I’m _in_ love with you, man. It’s not a, a _friendly_ I appreciate you covering my half of the rent all the time shit, I’m _actually_ balls deep in love with you, okay? _That’s_ what I’m saying”, and Billy sounds all wound up, and maybe Steve shouldn’t _laugh_ , but he can’t fucking _help_ it.

Billy Hargrove’s _in_ love with him. _Balls deep in love with him._ Steve can’t really believe that this is his _life_ , like he’s suddenly in some kinda _movie_ , where he fights the _monsters_ and _gets_ the guy. The guy who’s _balls deep in love with him._

“Billy”, and he looks kinda _unhinged_ , panting, eyes wide, like he said too much, “I love you”, Steve says _again_ , hopes Billy will _get_ it, get that Steve’s in love with him and his _stupidly_ blue eyes, the ones widening so much it’s _funny_.

And maybe a first kiss on chief Hoppers couch isn’t the most romantic, but it’s _heaven_ , feeling those lips _crash_ against his own, feels like it’s the ocean coming _home_ to meet the sand, even though Steve’s never been to the fucking beach, he’s just heard enough of it from _Billy_ to feel like he’s lived there, _too_.

Maybe a first kiss that only breaks off ‘cause of a giggle, and a quick shuffling of feet, and the sound of El’s bedroom door closing _real_ fast, isn’t _movie_ worhty, but it’s the best damn kiss Steve’s _ever_ had.


	8. Wake me up with the sweetest of kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: comfort after a fight, + college Billy requested
> 
> Angst with a soft and happy ending

It’s normal, for it to go like this. It’s just them gettin’ out of their _honeymoon phase_ , getting used to _really_ living together. It’s _normal_. The way breakfast isn’t blueberry pancakes and dewy kisses. The way nights aren’t spent rolling around in bed, giggling and teasing more than anything. The way Billy spends Friday nights at the library, now, finishing up essays and group projects and all the smart shit he does for _college_.

And Steve tries to remember that it’s all _normal_ , that they can’t stay in their bubble forever. He just doesn’t wanna get _stuck_ , doesn’t want them to become strangers living together under the same roof. Doesn’t want to disappear on _business trips_ , or be left behind. And listen, Steve _knows_ he’ll be the one let behind, _Billy’s_ the one who’s in _college_ , the one with _dreams_ and brains to make ‘em real. 

But Steve can _not_ spiral _and_ make an effort at the same time, and he’s making an effort. Maybe they’re not gonna go back to the lazy, golden mornings they shared when Steve had the Harrington house all to himself, but they can still have _something_. Something more than fleeting _hello’s_ and tired _g’nights_. 

He’s cooking, making bolognese with all the fancy spices, with _real_ tomatoes, like he did for Billy when they were seventeen, eighteen and so in _love_ and so _new_ , to each other. He dug out some _candles_ , put ‘em on their tiny kitchen table, warm glow making everything soft. He feels _good_ , making them food like he used to do all the time, like he hasn’t in a while ‘cause he’s been taking extra shifts so they could start up some kinda _savings_ _shit_. 

Maybe all they need is some comfort, some _familiarity_ in all the chaos of moving, half way across the ‘states for Steve, moving _home_ for Billy. And, _yeah_ , that’s probably it, and Steve’s feeling pretty _good_ about how he’s handling all this, _not spiraling_. They’re _fine_ , they just need to _unwind_ and remember how _nice_ it is to come home and eat something _warm_ and play footsie under the table. That’s all they need. 

-

Billy’s late. Billy’s _late_ , ‘cause he _always_ writes down when he’ll be home on a post-it note. _Always_ makes sure it’s tacked to the fridge where Steve’ll see it. And _7:30_ ′s scribbled on a post-it note, but the clock is ticking past _8, 8:25_ , and Billy’s not _home_.

The pasta’s cooling by the time Steve hears their lock rattle, door flinging open. The bolognese’s cold in the pot, but it’s _fine_ , they have a microwave for a reason. It’s just tiny details, easy to fix. Billy doesn’t make his way into the kitchen, Steve hears his socked feet pad over to their bedroom door, closed. _Silence_. Billy’s pausing, standing behind that closed door like he’s waiting for something, before Steve hears him open that door too. Maybe Steve should let himself be _known_ , make some kinda noise so Billy’ll know he’s in their tiny kitchen, the one with yellow cabinets Billy painted himself, back when time was on _hold_ and they were _close_. Steve stays quiet, hunched over the stove, listening to Billy shuffling around in their bedroom. He wonders if Billy even noticed that he’s not there, bundled up in their blankets, facing the wall. 

By the time socked feet find themselves in the kitchen, Steve’s kinda _spiraled_. ‘Cause he feels like his own _mom_ , back when Steve was too little to leave alone in that too big house, when she’d stand against her kitchen island, wine glass in hand, cooling dinner in the sink. He feels like he’s grasping for something that’s not _there_ , like he’s asking too _much_ with a dinner and some of that softness, they used to have. Billy doesn’t _say_ anything, from where he stands, just takes in the lowburning candles, the pots cooling by the stove. Takes in Steve, leaning against their kitchen counter, hands gripping the edge like he’d just sink to the floor if he let _go_. Maybe he would. 

“Hey”, Billy sounds careful, like he doesn’t know how to _navigate_ through all this, and Steve doesn’t _either_ , he doesn’t know how to _fix_ something that’s not even broken, just _off, cold_. “We, uh, got caught up, there was a lotta shit to be done”, and Steve _knows_ that’s as close to a _sorry_ he’ll get, and he’s _fine_ with that, it’s how it’s _always_ been.

And like, “there’s _always_ shit to be done”, and Steve _gets_ that college is hard and Billy needs to _work hard_ , to get where he wants, but he can’t become someone who lives with a _stranger._ It _hurts_ , thinking of having to getting used to people being _late_ , business trips _extended_ and flights _cancelled_.

And Billy sorta huffs a laugh, one of those that means Steve’s _acting_ some sorta way but Billy’s too tired to deal with him, “yeah, it’s _college_ , whaddya expect?” 

Steve doesn’t _know_ what he expected, seven months ago, when Billy had all his stuff in a duffel thrown over his shoulder, when those _blue_ eyes stared him down, cherry red lips forming _come home with me_. But he’d _followed_ him, would follow Billy _anywhere_ , and now it feels like he’s being _left_ behind, asking for too _much_. “I just, I don’t know, it woulda been _nice_ to know that you’d be late, I woulda started cooking later”, and Steve doesn’t feel like he’s really talking about _cooking_ , doesn’t know why it feels like they’re right on the _edge_. 

Billy has the, _the_ _decency_ to look sheepish, hand coming up to tug at curls that aren’t _there_ anymore, that he cut short their first week here. “It got so late, I mean, I ate there, I didn’t think you’d-”

“Didn’t think I’d _what_? Be home, waiting for you, like I _always_ am?”, and Steve’s _bursting_ , and it’s not about _cooking_ , it never _was_ , and it just feels like Steve’s life’s on _repeat_. He’s _always_ home, always _cooking_ for someone who’ll _eat_ somewhere else. 

“ _Jesus_ , save the poor fuckin’ housewife act for someone who cares, I didn’t ask you to fuckin’ _do_ all this”, and Steve _knows_ Billy does that, becomes all sharp to save himself, when he’s cornered, _caged_ in. But _shit_ , it doesn’t hurt _less_ , when those sharp these are bared at _him_.

“ _Fuck_ , Billy, you’re not home enough to _ask_!”, and Steve understands that college is _fucking_ , and he’s happy Billy finally gets to do what he _wants,_ build the _life_ he wants. And _god_ , it doesn’t really feel like Steve’s _apart_ of that life, there’s no _room_ for him, there. 

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ , princess, that me goin’ to college is so _straining_ for you. I’m _sorry_ I can’t be here when you come home from your _tiring_ work as a what, _glorified_ errands boy? It must be _real_ hard, without the constant fuckin’ attention you can’t survive without”, and listen, Steve knows how Billy _works_ , how he gets _sharp_ to avoid getting _hurt_ , how he lashes out with words instead of fists, now. But it feels _more_. Feels too _much_. Feels like Billy’s been _waiting_ for a reason to say all that shit, get it outta him how damn _tired_ he is. Tired of _Steve_ , ‘cause Billy got a fucking _scholarship_ and Steve’s working every job he _can_ with a high school diploma. Tired of someone who he’ll just leave _behind_. 

Steve’s tired, too. Tired of feeling something go _cold_ , cold like Billy’s side of the bed’s been in the mornings, for the better half of three months. Tired of clutching and _clinging_ to someone who’s so damn _tired_ of him. “It’s bolognese. If you’re hungry, anyway”, Steve doesn’t know what else to _say_ , can’t find words that would make Billy _want_ him, like he did when they were seventeen, eighteen and Steve was the _prettiest thing he’d ever seen._

Steve has to let go, let _go_ of where he’s gripping the edge of the counter so hard it hurts, even though he’ll fall, fold and _unravel_. He lets go, shoulders past Billy and those blue, _blue_ eyes, that slack jaw, that heaving chest. Shoulders past his _Steve-._

-

Billy knocks, _knocks_ on the bedroom door, like it’s not _theirs_ , like Steve’s gonna _lock_ him out. Steve’s all bundled up in their blankets, like he’d usually be when Billy’s late or staying over at a friends. _Usually_ , Steve could sleep, he’d gotten _better_ at all that shit, he could _sleep_ ‘cause he knew Billy was safe, knew when he’d be home. Billy’d been _late_ though, he’d been late and he’d been so _tired_ , tired of Steve and his _clinging_ , and yeah, Steve’s not gonna get any fucking sleep. 

He doesn’t know how many minutes, _hours_ , it takes for Billy to _knock_. Doesn’t know if Billy left and came back or if he’s knocking to tell him that he’s _leaving_ , that he can’t stay with someone who can’t survive without _constant fucking attention._

Steve doesn’t say anything, hopes Billy will assume he’s _asleep_. Light filters in, fills their bedroom with a warm glow, makes his eyes screw shut. 

“Steve”, and Billy’s as soft as the light he brought with him, soft in the way he didn’t allow himself to be when he was seventeen, and he’s come a _long way_ , in only two summers. “come on, I _know_ you can’t fall asleep like that, on your belly”, and _fuck_ , Billy’s all soft like he _didn’t_ \- like he’s protecting Steve’s goddamn _feelings_. “It smelled real good, your cookin’. ‘M sorry I came all late, I didn’t know you made all that, for us”, there’s a dip, Billy sitting down on his side of the bed, hands smoothing out the bedding. “Steve, _please_ , look at me”, and Billy’s all _soft_ , saying _please_ and _sorry_ like that’s something he _does_.

And how’s Steve supposed to _resist_? He’s always been weak, for Billy _fucking_ Hargrove. He shoves outta the comforter all tangled around him, hopes his face isn’t blotchy and red the way it goes when he’s been fucking _crying_. 

“ _Steve_ ”, and Billy’s hand shoots up, like an instinct, to touch him, cradle his jaw. It hovers in the air between them, before he lets it drop. “I’m sorry, baby”, and he _never_ says sorry, not with _words_. “I didn’t, _fuck_ , you _know_ I don’t mean that shit”, and _yeah_ , Steve _knows_ Billy gets _sharp_ when he’s scared, but it felt _more_ , this time. 

“I mean, you _could_ , shit. I _know_ I’m not fucking useful, or whatever.”, and Steves voice is shot to hell, scratchy and _annoying_ , like he’s been fucking _crying_. And that wrinkle between Billy’s brows is showing, jaw working, like he’s chewing on his thoughts, on what to _say_. 

“ _Fuck_ , Stevie, you’re _not_. You’re not fucking useless, you’re not. I just- _fuck_ , I just need to do _good_ and I’m so goddamn _tired_ , I’m sorry I made you think-”

“You _are_ doing good, Billy, you got a fucking _scholarship_ man, you’re doing _so_ good”, and Steve’s so _proud_ , of Billy, never _stopped_ being proud of him, even when he’d wake up to cold bedsheets, and fall asleep all curled up in himself. 

“ _No_ , like, I need to make it _worth_ it, fuck. I dragged you all the way here, like you don’t have a fuckin’ _family_ back there, and I need to do this _good_ , so it’ll be _worth_ it”, and it makes too much _sense_ , Billy working ‘round the fucking _clock_ to make it _worth it_ , like Steve wouldn’t follow him to the end of the fucking _world_. 

“Bill, you didn’t _drag_ me here, I’d follow you anywhere, you’re _it_ for me, shit”, and Billy has to know that, must’ve known, ‘cause Steve clings and holds tight, doesn’t let go. He grabs Billy’s hand, the one resting on their bedspread, pulls it _tight_ to his chest. And Billy’s smile is all watery, eyes bluer than the goddamn _ocean_.

“You are too, you’re my _everything_ , I’ve been shit at showin’ it, but you _are_ ”, and _fuck_ , Billy’s being all _soft_ , letting himself be vulnerable. And Steve kinda wants to cry a little _more_ , when Billy’s other hand is snaking its way up, cradling Steve’s jaw like he’s something _precious_. 

The kiss is sweet from the words and salty from tears, and it’s broken by a wet chuckle, by Billy’s hand tugging his hair, ever so gently, to get his attention. 

“Steve, I’m _serious_ , I- I love you too much to ever let you go”, and Steve _believes_ him, _clings_ to those words when he presses kisses to every part of Billy he can reach. 

-

Steve wakes up _warm_ , arms caging him in, warmth pressed into him, _sheltering_ him. Lips pressed _soft_ , to the nape of his neck. 

And it’s _normal_ , that every breakfast can’t be dewy honey and kisses, and it’s _okay_ , to wake up alone, to find post-it notes stuck to Billy’s pillow, typing out _good morning_ , and,

_gettin’ outta bed is a challenge when you look like that_


	9. truth or dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: truth or dare, drunken first kiss and “If I was attracted to you, I would have kissed you” “you did. Like ten seconds ago”

There was a time when Steve was cool. When he’d been the life of the party, _King fucking Steve_. No parties now. Not that he didn’t get the occasional invite, even after Billy Hargrove swooped down, stole the _bullshit_ title of _King_. Probably helped, that said Billy Hargrove was splayed across Steve’s mom’s _designer_ couch, the one she’d hired people to buy and bring to the house she barely _lives_ in, like he _owns_ it. 

Steve’s not _desperate_ enough that he’d invite over the guy who tried to _kill_ him, he’s not some kinda _loner_. He just didn’t _not_ invite him. Opened the door wide that night in February, ‘cause it’d been _snowing_ , and Steve’s not the kinda guy to leave someone shivering in a t- _shirt_ , out in the snow. And like, Billy just _kept_ coming over. Coming over in t-shirts soaked through with rain and snow and _blood_ , sometimes. Steve doesn’t ask about the blood. 

Tonight though, Billy knocks with a ringed hand, metal catching in the light. He’s all dolled up, shirt tight and jeans tighter. _Party ready._ Cheap whiskey breath to match. Steve doesn’t think about the way his mouth’s all dry, when he opens the door. 

So yeah, Steve’s got the new _king_ sprawled over his stuff, like Billy’s taken _them_ too. He finds that he doesn’t really care. Billy’s holding the remote to Steve’s TV set in one hand, bottle in the other. He’s laying in a way that has his head hanging off the edge, upside down. He’s still taking drags outta his bottle like it’s _baby formula_ , and no _wonder_ he broke Steve’s keg record on his first damn try. 

“St- _eve_ , I’m fuckin’ _bored_ ”, he’s saying, voice too smooth from all that whiskey. And it’s new, the _Steve_ thing. It’s _new_ and makes Steves pulse race, and he doesn’t really think about that. Doesn’t think about the way his mouth’s all _dry_ when he’s around Hargrove. Doesn’t think a bout his clammy fucking palms. It’s not on his mind, it’s not a _thing_. 

“I’m not your _babysitter_ , find something to do, I don’t _care_ ”, and he _doesn’t_ , not really. He probably _should_ care, should tell him not to steal any of the _designer_ shit his mom’s paying people to pick out for the _home_ she’s never _nurtured_ , never _made_ into a home. He doesn’t though. He’s all lax, sunken down into the corner of the couch, avoiding getting a face full of Hargrove’s feet, thrown up over the back of the couch.

“Shit, really? Thas’ why I keep _comin_ ’ here, _best_ \- best babysitter in the _state_ ”, and Billy’s full of crap, fucking _annoying_ , and Steve pries the bottle outta his too loose grip, swallows down too cheap whiskey. His dad’s liquor cabinet really fucked with his standards. He sinks down even more, head rushing, spinning. 

“That’s more like it, _lightweight_ ”, Billy’s _slurring_ , and he’s a fucking _asshole_ , so Steve doesn’t give him an answer. 

Hargrove’s acting like he _needs_ a damn babysitter, whining and _moaning_ and poking Steve’s thigh with a socked foot. An annoying fucking drunk. Steve feels more at home with him there than he’s probably ever done, in his house. 

“Come on _Stevie_ , entertain me”, and Steve’s _not_ analyzing the fucking _shiver_ , running down his spine. Billy’s heaving himself up, legs folding and sprawling out at the same damn time, Steve’s lap is full of fucking _muscles_ trapped in denim. He doesn’t think about that either. “Let’s _do_ somethin’”, and Billy’s still too far away for Steve to feel his damn breath, but it feels like it’s _right_ there.

“ _God_ , do whatever you want, I _literally_ don’t care” it’s hard to focus enough to get _words_ out, with his thighs trapped under Billy’s legs. With Billy _fucking_ Hargrove all close. 

“Truth or dare”, and like, Steve’s _not_ a lightweight, but he feels like maybe he’s _hallucinating_ , if Billy wants to play a fucking _kids_ game. 

“Wha-?”, and _yeah_ , _what_? 

“Truth or _dare_. Let’s play’, and King fucking _Billy_ wants to play truth or dare, like they’re _twelve_ , choking down stolen beer and sneaking looks at skinmags, hidden under a comforter. 

“You’re serious? We’re like, _two_ people. Are you _actually_ fucking twelve? It’s a kids game, fucking, _dare you to kiss the prettiest girl in the room shit_ ”, and Steve _knows_ he’s said some shit when Billy’s smile turns sharp, eyes _sparkling_. And he’s leaning closer, until Steve can _feel_ that whiskey breath, fanning across his face. And Steve kinda _freezes_ , ‘cause he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t wanna break the _spell_. Billy fumbles, crashes into him, lips finding the corner of Steve’s before he pulls away, that _dangerous_ grin in place, like he didn’t fucking plant one on him. A _kiss_.

“My turn”, and Billy’s not making _sense_ , or maybe Steve’s just lost it, after being kissed by- by _Hargrove_. By a guy. By someone who makes his hands clammy and mouth dry and _spine_ tingle. He can’t think about that shit. Can’t _think_ about his fucking symptoms of _madness_ , ‘cause Billy’s saying my turn, and _oh_ , _fucking, dare you to kiss the prettiest girl in the room shit._

“Fucking _asshole_ ”, Steve gets out, voice all fucked out, like Billy’d kissed him for _real_. Not just a half kiss, not just some kinda _dare_ he didn’t even-

“Truth ‘r dare, _pretty_ \- pretty boy”

And it feels like a trick question, ‘cause Billy can get _real_ creative, and Steve’s not up to fucking _lick_ Billy’s damn boots, or something.

“Truth”, and the way Billy’s _cackling_ makes it feel like the wrong choice. He can’t really _think_ about how Hargrove could use this, he’s a little _fucking_ distracted. _Billy Hargrove kissed him._

“D’ you ever jerk it thinkin’ ‘bout a guy?”, and maybe Steve’s really fucking insane. Maybe his brain’s morphing Billy’s voice into words he’d never say, hallucinating things he’d never _do_. Steve doesn’t think about what he _could_ answer, what he could _tell_ Billy. ‘Cause whatever the _truth_ to that question is, Steve doesn’t think about it. He’s _great_ at not thinking about shit. He _never_ thinks about how he’ll wake up panting, _sweating_ , all from dreams of smooth skin and _hard_ muscles and chests pressed up against him ( _like at practice_ ). He _forgets_ those dreams as soon as he wakes up. He _doesn’t_ think about them when his hand shoves down his boxers, wrapping around him too urgently, too roughly. It’s not something he _thinks_ about. 

“What _even_ \- why would you-”, and Steve’s fucking _stuttering_ , like he’s some kinda nerd who’s never-, _what_? Played truth or dare, drunk on stolen booze? Never _flirted_ like this, all loose and drunk? It feels like they could be flirting. It feels like nothing he’s ever felt. 

“You’re just lookin’ a little _affected_ , y’know, but maybe thas’ just the most action you’ve gotten all year”, and maybe Steve should be _scared_ , or something. Should feel _caught_ , like Billy figured something out. Something that could get ‘im _killed_. He doesn’t though, feel scared. ‘Cause Billy’s all _loose_ , pliant, sitting too close to him on the couch. _Billy Hargrove kissed him._

“You- you _kissed_ me, Hargrove, _shoot_ me for being surprised”, Steve’s not blushing, he’s _not._ He doesn’t _do_ that.

“You dared me, ‘is just how it _is_ ”, and Steve didn’t, he fucking _didn’t_ , and Billy’s looking at him all fire, like he’s daring Steve to say something else.

“I _didn’t_ \- I just, I don’t even wanna play”, and Steve’s not lying, not really. But, well, he just wants Billy _here_ , wants to have him _close_. And if that means playing _kids_ _games_ , asking shit he _doesn’t_ think about, _can’t_ think about. Well. Steve’s flexible.

“Pussy out, fine. As’ me somethin’, truth ‘r dare”, and Billy’s _gone_ , slurring and _useless_ , from a bottle of stolen whiskey. Steve’s seen him better, drinking worse.

“You’re an _actual_ child, Christ. Truth or dare, shit”, and Steve has no idea what he’s supposed to tell Billy to _do_ , _demand_ him to say.

“Les’ make it truth, to spice it up”, and Steve probably has _brain_ _damage_ at this point, ‘cause he blurts out,

“Why’d you kiss me? _Forreal_ , Billy”, and Billy kinda rolls his eyes at him, all _you’re_ _boring_.

“You _dared_ me, I told ya, and _I’m_ not a pussy”, and Billy’s talking all _slow_ , careless, but his fingers are tapping out a rhythm on his knee, jaw a little tense, makes it even _sharper_.

“I _didn’t_ , so why would you- do you _like_ me, or something?”, Steve’s played this game before, knows he shows his hand too soon, throws his cards at the other person, lets ‘em see too early. Too _much_.

“The _fuck_? I-no, _fuck_. If I was _attracted_ to you, I’d’ve _kissed_ you, smartass”, and Billy’s fucking _drunk_ , off of stolen whiskey, and he’s a fucking _idiot_ , difficult and just being all- all _hot_ , all over Steve’s couch. _Fuck_.

“You _did_ , like _ten_ seconds ago, _shit_ ”, and Steve couldn’t tell you if it _was_ ten seconds ago, or hours or _days_ ago. Time’s all screwed up, in his head. _Stopping_ , only to start and run away from him.

“That was’t even a _real_ kiss, poor fuckin’ _Wheeler_ if you think it ‘s”, Billy’s being _real_ funny, and maybe Steve should _drop_ it, act _normal_ and pretend it’s just a dare, but it _isn’t_ , and he _won’t_ , ‘cause his survival instincts are all wrong, _sideways_.

“Why’d you do it?”, Steve keeps pressing, he _presses_ until he expects some kinda _explosion_ , like a fist to his face.

“ _Fuck_ \- I, I choose dare. I _don’t_ \- just”, and Steve could tease ‘im, be a real _asshole_ , tell him not to _pussy_ _out_. He _should_. Should give ‘em a chance to _forget_ about shit Steve’s not _allowed_ to think about.

But, turns out, Steve Harrington has some kinda _deathwish_. He has to be fucked up, fucking _crazy_ , ‘cause he can’t stop the words tumbling outta his mouth,

“Kiss me”

It’s stupid. It’s crazy, _Steve’s_ crazy. His heart is _racing_ , and this is probably when he _dies_ , when Billy decides the joke’s been taken too _far_.

“ _What_?”, and it’s breathy, all _soft_ in a way Steve never thought Billy could sound like. His blue, _blue_ eyes are all _big_ , trained on him with too much clarity, ‘cause he’s fucking _hammered_.

“You heard me”, Steve’s voice is all sturdy, like he’s not about to fucking _die_ , like he’s not thinking about the shit he’s _never_ supposed to think about, like he’s not doing something he’s not _allowed_ to do.

And Billy keeps _looking_ at him, jaw slack, eyes darting between Steve’s brown ones and his _lips_. Like he’s actually gonna- like Billy’s not about to beat his _face_ in for taking this too _far._

Like a switch, those eyes turn _sharp_ , dangerous. All twinkling and so _blue_ , and Steve can’t fucking help but to stare and stare and fucking _stare_. Billy’s leaning closer ( _again_ ), balancing himself with a hand next to Steve’s head on the couch, caging Steve in with his body, locking him in place with those _eyes_.

Fuck it. _Fuck_ it, Steve hasn’t died yet, hasn’t been punched seven ways to Sunday _yet_ , and he doesn’t _care_ about the shit he’s not _supposed_ to think about. Doesn’t care that Billy’s whiskey breath is fanning over his face ( _again_ ). Doesn’t care about his stupid _deathwish_.

He kisses Billy. He leans up, catches those lips in a _kiss_. It’s _soft_ , all tender like they don’t know what to _do_. Steve’s all hazy, from the whiskey and from Billy, _Billy Hargrove_ who he’s _kissing_. Billy Hargrove, who’s pressing _real_ close, body _looming_ over Steve, tongue _exploring_ his mouth like he doesn’t taste like stolen, too cheap whiskey.

And it’s _easy_ not to think about what he _should_ do, what he’s not _allowed_ to think about. Easy to forget the boxes in his head, the ones with _do not open!_ scribbled all over. It’s so _easy_ to forget _everything_ , when he’s kissing _Billy fucking Hargrove._


	10. Rush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr post: flexibility of the word ‘fuck’
> 
> Amazement + Sexual

_Crack_. It’s hard, describing the sound. The sound of bone breaking, the sound of metal piercing skin. The sound of whines cut off, as spines are snapped. It’s _thrilling_.

It’s a different sorta feeling, crowbar heavy in his hands, dripping with monster guts. He’s always been addicted to that rush, the adrenaline from doing something _stupid_. Something that could get you killed.

He ain’t gettin’ killed, not today. Not by _monsters_ , the ones he’s bringing down one gut wrenching _crack_ at a time. Not when he’s got brats piled in the Beemer, doors locked and windows fogging from their shouts and screams he can’t hear. Not when he’s got _Steve_ protecting his flank, swinging that bat from hell like he’s been doin’ it since before he could walk.

There’s not many of ‘em left, not like when Steve had to take them all _alone_ , like the goddamn _hero_ he is. He’s panting, arms aching and heart beating outta his chest. He ain’t dying today. They’re inching closer to the car, moving like they planned it. Running on instincts they shouldn’t have. He gets one right in the ugly, shriveled up flower of a face, blood and goo smattering all over. It’s heady enough for him to _stop_ , only for a second. _A second._

A _second_ , and they’re two of the ugly fuckers, heading straight at him. There’s a shout, a hand grabbing his shoulder, pulling it ‘till it hurts. And there’s _Steve_ , swinging away at two monsters, pushing Billy towards the car. Fighting off death with a furious yell and bloody Nikes. And Steve hits them both at once, bat and rusty nails catching _two_ ‘dogs like a damn _pro_. They’re not dead, jaws still unhinged and claws still searching for flesh, when they throw ‘emselves into car. Steve’s pushing forty before Billy’s got the door closed, ignoring the screechy “how the _fuck_ did you do that? How did he _do_ that, _shit_ ” from the backseat.

-

They get to the Byers, kids exhausted and all sweaty, like _they_ fought off inter-dimensional goddamn _monsters_ until their last breath. They reach a lit up house and a furious Joyce, and a ‘why the _fu_ \- _why_ were you out in the damn fields again?’. The kids get ushered inside, faces sheepish but exhilarated. Billy’s ears are ringing.

They’re still in the car, him and Steve. Breaths irregular, faces smattered with guts and dirt and sweat.

“You saved my _life_ ”, and Billy sounds all fucking _breathless_. Like he’s been runnin’ marathons all day. And Steve’s smiling, a half smile half _smirk_ , eyes all shimmery, lips all pink.

“Someone has to”, and they’re all grimey, _gross_ , but Billy presses his lips to Steve’s, couldn’t care a _fuck_ about the way his hands are shaking, a little, as the settle into that sweatsoaked hair.

They’re _gripping_ each other, touching like it’s the first time in _years_. Like they’re not parked right by the fucking _Byers_ place. Aggressive kisses like they can’t get close enough, teeth clinking and biting. No _rush_ holds a candle to this. No stupid thing Billy’s done for the _kick_ is _close_ to what he’s doing with Steve Harrington. What he _feels_ for Steve Harrington.

It’s too _hot_ , in Steve’s preppy fucking car, too hot and it smells like blood, and Billy’s reaching for Steve’s belt buckle, has to break away from a kiss to focus. He’s panting like a damn _dog_ , lips brushing against Steve’s cheek, _feels_ Steve’s nervous sorta laugh.

“ _Heya_ , stud, come on”, he’s sayin’, but he doesn’t do much to stop Billy’s hand from rubbing him through his boxers, hand already tacky from the damp spot there.

“You saved my damn _life_ , Stevie. Let’s _fuck_ ”, and it makes _sense_ in Billy’s head, a damn celebration. There’s too _much_ thrumming under his skin, to much _energy_ that needs to be released. A sort of energy that can’t be let out through beating on monsters or walls or the dusty, never used punching bag Steve has in his basement.

“The kids are _right there,_ c’mon”, and Steve’s voice is all high pitched, all airy like it does when he’s tryin’ not to _give in._ His hips are bucking up, all on their own, up against Billy’s hand. “I need to- _fuck_ , need to check on them. Catch Joyce up on all this- _shit_ ”, and he’s _right_ , he’s thinking all logically. But Billy needs him _close_. Needs him like he needs his _hit_ , the _rush_.

He’s become soft, over the weeks turned to months he’s been involved with the batshit that is Hawkins, Indiana’s _pest problem_. Soft for the pack of _puppies_ that came with Steve. Soft enough to pull back, smack one last, slick kiss to those lips. Get his hand outta those jeans, tucking in Steve’s dick, giving it a little pat on the way back. _Good boy._ Grins shark sharp when Steve huffs out a _whine_.

“We’re not done here”, he’s sayin’ all husky in the way he knows makes people dizzy, smile to match. It’s _easy_ to pull all that shit with Steve, the smiles and the lines. It’s the first time he’s wanted to. The first time he _craves_ the reaction it gets.

“ _Later_ ”, Steve breathes back, hooking a finger around an unruly curl of Billy’s. Lets it bounce against his forehead when he lets go.

“That an invitation to stay the night, pretty boy?”, and Steve’s leaning in all _close_ , hand reaching out to unlock Billy’s door for him. His other one finding balance on Billy’s inner thigh. On his fucking _crotch_.

“ _Oh_ , I’m not letting you outta my sight for a _week, baby”_


	11. “You’re so fucking good”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr post: flexibility of the word ‘fuck’
> 
> Compliment + realization

It was an all new low, where Billy found himself. On the floor of _casa_ Harrington, with a giggling Robin Buckley sprawled all over him. They weren’t friends. They barely _talked_ , except for that one time Billy’d offered her a smoke that day they’d skipped trig and ended up sitting under that ledge, escaping the rain, only to be turned by a, _I don’t smoke_ cigarettes. What she smoked was _weed_ , got it from Byers and shared it with Harrington. And _him_ now, apparently.

She‘s working with Harrington down at the mall, at Ahoy _somethin_ ’, slinging ice cream all day. It’s almost too sad to laugh at. They’re not _friends_ , but there’s some kinda _understanding_ between them. Something he never thought he’d see outside a’ _home_. So they barely _talk_ , but they _bump into_ each other, small place like Hawkins. Nod at each other. Even though High School ranked them into opposites. It’s all _bullshit_. She saw _right_ through him, probably what made her follow him to that ledge in the rain, in the first place. _Like recognizes like._

It’s the first time she’s invited him someplace, told him to come hang at _Steve-o’s._ _I’ve got goodies_. It was _weird_ , Buckley being the connection between him and Harrington. He’d never get through it sober. He’s all buzzing, weed not as good as the shit he’d get back in ‘Cruz, but it’s workin’ alright. Making him slow and hazy and makes it harder to look away when Steve meets his eyes.

Harrington’s talking, all animated and loud, tellin’ some sorta embarrassing story. Or something. It’s hard to keep _track_ , hard to listen _and_ follow every movement of those hands, those lean fingers. Buckley’s laughing like she’s _dyin’_ , hand on her stomach, head thrown back. Billy’s laughing along, has no clue to what.

“No _way_ that’s true, you gotta ‘ve made that up, what the _fuck_ ”, she’s wheezing, and Steve’s shaking his head until _Billy_ gets dizzy.

“I swear it’s true! I’ll _prove_ it, hol’ on”, and Steve’s jumping to his feet, joint dropping on to the _pristine_ carpet. Billy’s still lost, eyes lingering on where Steve’s soft, threadbare basketball shorts have rucked up on his thigh.

“What’re you _talking_ ‘bout?”, he asks, head dropping back to catch Buckeys eyes. She’s got her feet propped up on that ugly fuckin’ sofa, shows toed off by the door ( _Americans_ are _pigs_ , this carpet doesn’t deserve _shoe-feet_ all over it).

“He’s being a _total_ dingus, dude, he’s saying he- he was like a _choir_ boy, y’know, like the church kids in _church_. ‘Cause his mom’s like _Italian_ and forced him, n’ apparently he was like, _good_? He’s fucking _lying_ , it’s ridic- ricidulous. Ridiculous?”, and he doesn’t really get what she’s saying, shrugs and grabs the chips she’s got in her fist. Swallows them down, throat dry, when Steve comes back. He’s holding a guitar, triumphant. He’s _panting_ , breaths loud and irregular.

“I’ll show you, I _swear_ I’ve got talent, _listen_ ”, and Buckley’s still giggling, and he kinda wants her to shut the fuck up. Wants to listen. Those fingers are moving across the spine of the guitar, movements familiar. Like it’s something Steve _does_. He’s _mesmerized_ , by those hands. Those fingers. He almost forgets to listen to that _voice_.

It takes his fucking breath away. The way Steve’s voice is kinda light, wirery and a little raw, from the weed, probably. He’s singing somethin’ soft, some kinda song sung by a girl to a dulled piano. Even Buckley stopped crunching on chips and suckin’ on twizzlers to listen.

They’re kinda in _awe_ , all of ‘em, when Harrington puts the guitar down, reaches for Billy’s joint, forgotten between his fingers. And _listen_ , Billy’s fucking high, so he doesn’t really have control over his mouth, clears his throat to say,

“You’re _so_ fucking good”, and his voice is all _dry_ , scratchy and sideways. He drinks in the way Steve _blushes_ , eyes hooded and smile all soft, _private_.

“Thanks”, and it’s soft like that smile, all low and _secretive_. He turns to Buckley, gives her the bird and a “I fucking _told_ you”.

And the whole night is kinda _lost_ on him, after that. He can’t get Steve’s damn voice outta his head, can’t stop eyeing that fucking guitar, wants to know how those fingers would feel on _him_ , traveling down his spine.

He doesn’t remember watching the movie Buckley stole from the dying rental place in town. He doesn’t remember falling asleep on that couch, or wrapping himself up in a blanket.

-

He wakes up with a crick in his neck and a sweatsoaked shirt. It takes him a second to remember where he is, heaves himself up outta the couch, stretches, coughs from the stale smoke still hanging in the air. There’s coffee in the kitchen, has to be, judging from the smell. He pads his way over, tries to remember taking his boots off.

Harrington’s there, all wrapped in a fuckin’ robe, hair a damn mess. He’s taking out cups, trying to balance three in one hand, hand stretched around them. He jumps a little, when the floorboards creak under Billy’s shifting feet.

“Morning”, he croaks our, smile all big and eyes bigger, and Billy kinda wants to _hide_. Like he’s some kinda fuckin’ _coward_. He grunts in reply, voice too dry to say _shit_. Makes a move for one of the cups, smiles when Steve hands him the creamer. Tries not to think about last night, about soft smiles and _you’re_ so _fucking good._

They stay in the kitchen, drinking Harrington’s fancy coffee, the hand ground beans from _Brazil_ or some shit. Billy _tries_ not to think too hard about wether Steve’s got something on under that robe.

“So,” Harrington starts, raking a hand through that ratnest , “you really think I’m any good?”, and Billy _wishes_ it took him a second to get it, that he hasn’t been playing his fuckin’ voice on repeat in his head.

“Yeah, why not”, he goes for uncaring, tries to make up for the way he sounded ready to sink to his damn _knees_ , last night. Steve’s looking at him all _intense_ , brown eyes digging deep.

“I just- the way you _looked_ at me man, I-“, and Billy’s palms are sweating, pulse speeding. Scrambles for some kinda explaining. He was high as a _kite_ , it was _one am_ , it was- _he’s not-_ “I’ve never- I haven’t _had_ anyone looking at me, like that”, and he doesn’t know what to _say_ to that. Words lodged in his throat, fingers curling around the edge of Steve’s kitchen island.

Harrington huffs something out, shakes his head a little. Crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. Goes ‘round the island to stand right in front a’ him. “I guess- I wanted to keep playing forever, to have you look at me like that”, and there’s that _secret_ again, the one Billy’s not sure he’s in on. And he can’t really _breathe_ , can only get out a _Steve_ and some sorta breathy sigh. And Steve murmurs _please don’t hit me_ , before he leans in. Kisses him.

Touches his lips to Billy’s, hands coming up to cradle his stubbled jaw. It’s like a feverdream. Billy’s not sure he’s not just _dead_ , making shit up. Hallucinating. But Steve’s _there_ , pressing kisses to his lips, pressing _close_ , right there in his kitchen. It’s better than any damn weed Billy’s ever smoked. A bigger kick than the cocaine he did on the lip of someone’s bathtub, once. It makes his fucking _knees_ weak.

And getting to _touch_ , feel that hair under his fingertips, dig his palms into Steve’s waist. It’s more than he’d ever dreamed of. He’s already _addicted_. And their coffee’s probably going cold, by now, forgotten. Coffee isn’t on his fucking _mind_ when he’s got those hands sprawled across his ribs, fingers tapping out a rhythm he wishes he could hear. Feels it plenty.

He’s pressed into the counter, lips hot against his bared throat, hands moving on their own orders to untie the knot holding that robe together, by the time creaking steps get closer without then hearing. His head’s spinning from shock and ecstasy and the high of _I never wanna let you go_. He’s got a hand tangled in Steve’s, smiling all dewy and hazy and _golden_. Cheeks flushed and chest _heaving_. He’s completely fucking _gone_ , sucked into some kinda world that scares the _shit_ outta him, a little, but feels so damn _good_ , when he hears the clank of something dropping on to the hardwood floor, and a screeching,

“I fucking _knew_ it”.


	12. soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr post: flexibility of the word ‘fuck’
> 
> Puzzlement + surprise

The entire apartment reeked with nail polish and cheap, girly kid perfume. It’ll probably take days to get the smell out. He’s on the floor, even though his back’s hurting and his knee’s pulled in an awkward position. Max’s sprawled out on her stomach beside him, reading some nerd comic and blowing on neon green fingernails. Jane’s sitting right by him, holding onto his scarred, always shaking hand, eyes squinted in concentration. She’s covering his thumbnail with blue polish, mouth twisting into one of her private, too mature smiles when she gets it right. 

He doesn’t know when he became so damn _soft_. When he started letting kids boss him around. Paint his fuckin’ _nails_. They’d barged in a couple a’ hours ago, when he’d opened the door wide, hoping for _Steve_. He was too tired to throw ‘em out. Let them raid his ugly little kitchen, let them look through his sparse movie collection - which he only had ‘cause of Steve, anyway. Let Jane practice this shit on him, too damn _soft_ to say no to those eyes. ‘Cause he _knew_ she didn’t get that shit, before. Wasn’t _allowed_. He’s heard her talkin’ about _papa_ , _knows_ the anger she feels. 

She’s feeding him off-brand Oreos whenever he opens his mouth, giggling when he nips at her fingers. He’s becoming a damn _babysitter_. A good one, but _still_. Not like he’d ever let the rest of the rats’ in, the loud fuckers with their nerdy game they always play at Steve’s. Little Byers’ an exception, with his haunted eyes and quiet smiles. He sees too much of _him_ in that kid. _Tries_ not to wonder if maybe he’d be a little like the Byers, if his mom had stayed. Softer, maybe. 

The fumes must be goin’ _straight_ to his head, makes him all dizzy. He doesn’t hear the key jamming itself in the lock, doesn’t hear the shuffling of feet or crinkle of grocery bags. Stays there on the floor until Jane’s lighting up, almost dropping the bottle of color she’s holding in favor of yelling “ _Steve_!”

“Hey there, superstar. Watcha doing here?”, and Billy stumbles to his feet, turns around to look at him. Stumbles a little more. Steve looks _soft_ , all bundled up in a _real_ soft sweater, the one he forgot at Billy’s and only took with him yesterday. The sleeves are rolled up, showing off forearms, straining from the weight of too many bags. The chemicals in the polish are _definitely_ going to his head. 

“We got bored of the arcade. We’re having a _sleepover_ ”, and that’s news to Billy, but the way she’s talkin’ all _sweet_ makes it hard not to nod along. He catches Steve’s eyes, can’t stop the smile takin’ over his face. Too damn _soft_. Max’s greeting is a, _we’re all out of cookies,_ and a smile mostly directed to her comic. 

He trudges after Steve into the kitchen, five steps away from the couch, maybe. Presses _real_ close, cages him into the counter. Leans in for a kiss, lips landing on a turned away cheek. 

“Huh?”, and Steve’s _laughing_ , a little. Pushing at Billy until he steps back an _inch_. 

“I’m just- since when is _Billy Hargrove_ part of Hawkins babysitters club? What the fuck?”, and he’s a fucking _dork_ , smile all triumphant like he’s _done_ something here. 

“Shut _up_ , jesus, they just _invaded_ , what am I supposed to _do_?”, Billy doesn’t really want an answer, wants a fuckin’ _kiss_ , wants to get his hands under that _soft_ sweater. 

“You’ve gone soft, _Hargrove_ ”, Steve’s all _tease_ , pulling him in by the collar of his sweatshirt. Invites him in, to fit right between those legs. 

“You’ve got a damn attitude, _princess_ ”, and Steve’s all _soft_ laughs and smiles, and Billy’s fuckin’ _proud_. Feels it sit heavy and sure in his fluttering gut. This is what he wants. Steve smiling all easy, eyes crinkling and shoulders loose. Wants to bask in it _forever_. “What’s in the bags, anyways?” He asks between kisses, fingers curling in the sweater, stretching it. 

“Just the regular stuff, wanted to make us some dinner”, and it’s so _familiar_ in a way Billy’d never wanted shit to be. Makes him _melt_ , makes him all _soft_. Steve’s made him go fucking soft. _Well_. Figuratively speaking. 

“I could kick the brats out”, and he probably wouldn’t, not even _Max_ , but he still punches at Steves arm when he says,

“ _Could_ you? I doubt it”

-

Dinner goes by in a blur of spilled sauce and subtle - _cut it out, we’re literally here!_ , footsie under the table and compliments to the chef. Jane dragged Max over to the couch after, put on some girly movie Max hates but laughs along with ‘cause they all know Jane never got to _have_ all that shit, before. 

Billy hurdles Steve into his bedroom, ignoring dirty dishes and melting ice cream in grocery bags. Closes the door with a _bang_ , leans heavy against it. He feels too damn _light_. Like he could just float away, disappear, nothing holding him down to earth. Nothing but _Steve_ , his hands on his skin, his lips pressed to Billy’s. He’s working his way down to his throat, hands fumbling with the zipper of Billy’s sweatshirt. Pulls at the sleeves. Presses a kiss to his shoulder, over his tee. Works his way down, kisses scars and the lone freckle that survived the cold Indiana winter. Makes Billy sigh and smile like a damn _girl_. Reaches his wrist, his hand, his fingers, then- _stops_. Head flying up, big eyes meeting Billy’s. Clutching his hand, bringing it up, too. 

“Holy _fuck_ , Bill”, and he’s eyeing his hand, and Billy’s head is all fuzzy, can’t focus, until- _oh_. The nail polish, blue and so _visible_ , on his nails. The shiver down his spine isn’t one of the good ones. He wants to _hide_ , hide away somewhere _far_ from those eyes. That pink mouth parted in shock. 

“It’s _nothing_ \- it’s just Jane, she wanted to- I _swear_ ”, and he’s prying his hand outta Steve’s, wishes he wasn’t trapped between the door and those _eyes_ , pinning him in place. 

“Hey, _hey_ come on, shit, it’s- you’re fucking _hot_ ”, and Steve’s outta breath, eyes fluttering between Billy’s face and his hands, ever twitching. He reaches out again, real slow, takes one of Billy’s hand in both of his. “It looks _good_. I- _fuck_ , just, I can’t _function_ ”, and he’s all _red_ , blushing and squirming. Like he’s not being some kinda fuckin’ _angel_. He brings Billy’s scarred hand up to his lips, kisses his fingertips like Billy’s something to _worship_. Mouths at them with those slick, pouty lips. Makes Billy pant, _whine_ , ache in his jeans. He winds his other hand in Steve’s mess of a hair, pulls at his nape, grins at the nip his ringfinger gets in return. 

They’re still against the goddamn door, rutting against each other, twined together. He’s leaking through his fuckin’ boxers, humping Steve’s thigh, too slow and lazy to make him come. 

“ _Stevie_ , shit, lemme take you to bed”, his voice is shot to hell, all gravely, fucked out. He’s pushing them closer to the bed Steve’s in more than he is in his own, hands undoing Steve’s belt. Throws it with a _thunk_ on the carpet.

Steve’s sprawled out on the sheets, looking all _king Steve_ , jeans undone, boxers tenting. Billy’s fucking _drooling_ , crawling outta his jeans, ready to fuckin’ _pounce_. He stretches up to kiss that jaw, lick down that too pale throat. Shudders when Steve lets out a _whine_ , syrupy sweet.

He’s bunching up that sweater, snakes a hand down his stomach, scratches just to feel his muscles clench. Leans down to suck, lick, _bite_ on a nipple in that way that has Steve _leaking_ all over himself.

“Bill, _baby_ , hey”, Steve gets out, pushes at Billy until he lets up. Brings him back up, nose to nose. “Your walls are _real_ thin”

“So?”, and Billy’s kinda _annoyed_ , kinda wants to suck Steve’s dick. But Steve’s pushing himself up, until he’s sitting, Billy straddled across his lap. Steve’s arms tight around his waist. 

“ _So_ , the girls are having a _sleepover_. We’re not _savages_ ”, and he’s _ridiculous_ , grin all smug, un- _fucking_ -believable.

“Are you _joking_? _You’re_ the one who- who’s all- _fuck you_ ”, and Steve _shakes his head_ , untangling himself, pulls off his sweater and finds a pair of sweats bundled up in the comforter. Starts burrowing down into the blankets like he’s not hard as goddamn _steel_. 

“It’s late, you should get some rest”, and those eyes _know_ what they’re doing, looking all innocent, _Bambi_. He’s a fucking _dick_. 

“Is _that_ what I should get? Really?”, but Steve’s eyes are closed, arms wound around a pillow like they’re usually locked around _Billy_. Smile still tugging his lips. Fucker’s not asleep for _shit_. 

But Billy’s gone all _soft_ , even when he’s _aching_ in his damn boxers. Too soft to _not_ find his own pair of sweats, a worn tee, and crawl right into bed. _Into home._ _Rips_ the pillow outta Steve’s grip, throws it across the room. Pushes himself close, instead. Tries not to sigh too loud when Steve noses his neck, placing a soft, _syrupy_ kiss to his nape. Can’t help the smile when Steve tangles their fingers together, rests them by Billy’s stomach. He’s pretty sure he falls asleep smiling like a goddamn loon. 

-

When Billy blinks awake, to the smell of burning toast and the sound of kids cartoons turned up too loud, the first thing he sees is their hands. Still all wound together. It’s too sweaty to be so close, but he tightens his fingers around Steve’s, anyways. Lies there, stares at the _blue_ so visible, on his nails. Something new. Something _terrifying_. Something that wells up some sorta _syrupy_ feelin’ inside a’ him. Keeps _staring_ until he feels Steve move, behind him, until there’s a kiss in his hair, his temple, his cheek. Until he gets turned around, until all he can see are those _big_ , whiskey eyes, the crowsfeet already there even though they’re _barely_ adults. Until his whole damn _world_ is that smile, that voice. _His Steve._


	13. Who gives a fuck?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the tumblr post: flexibility of the word fuck
> 
> Philosophical + sexual
> 
> This is pretty explicit, pwp with some gross hot Billy
> 
> Come yell at me, or suggest some prompts, on my tumblr: @awickedplacethisis

He’s never been more willing to light something on fire. It’s _taunting_ him, laying there. His bullshit excuse of an essay. It should’ve been _easy_ , ‘cause he _read_ the stupid book and he answered the stupid questions that were supposed to help him _get_ it. Okay, he _listened_ to the book, and maybe that’s not enough for his stupid brain to get it. It’d been easy, listening to Billy reading, his voice all dark and hushed, eyes following words they’ve seen three, _four_ times before. He did listen, clung to every damn word leaving those lips. He still can’t write the fucking essay. 

He’s on the floor, spine all twisted and legs bent. He’s moved around, from the dinner table to the couch to the floor. His pathetic scrawl fills up a quarter of the page, words all cramped together and barely making sense. He groans, again, throws his pencil in defiance. 

“As much as I love your little sounds, you should really get workin’ on that paper” is heard from the couch, Billy’s voice all low and drawling in that _stupid_ , sexy way it gets. Billy’s been hanging ‘round him all day, lounging and lazing around, watching Steve suffer. Doesn’t do shit to help him. And maybe that’s unfair, ‘cause Billy did read the whole thing to him. Still. Not cool. He’s snapping his head up to meet those _stupid_ eyes, and he knows that he’s pouting, knows his brows are all furrowed and jaw a little tense. 

“Why do I even _need_ this, I’m gonna forget half this shit before I even graduate”, and they’ve had this conversation before, Billy’s been hearing it all day, but honestly, Steve doesn’t _get_ it. He’s not going to college, he’s not _into_ weird books that _revolutionized_ science fiction or _whatever_ the fuck. He doesn’t _care_. He heaves himself up, so he can pace around the ugly glass coffee table, ignores Billy’s dramatic sigh. “Like, I’m not going to college, I’m not gonna get some job where I’ll need to know this. I’m too dumb to like, _enjoy_ reading, so-”, and Billy’s moving from the couch, grabs his shoulders, shakes him a little. Shuts him up. 

“ _Hey_ , you’re not dumb, this shit’s just hard for you, I _know_ that.”, he’s saying, words all gentle but voice all gruff, hands gripping tight. “But you need to get this done, okay?”, and it’s _cute_ , how much Billy cares about Steve’s _useless_ fucking grades. He knows Billy likes all this shit, reading and writing, even though he’d die before admitting it. _Cute_. He’s leaning forward, sways in Billy’s grip. 

“Billy” he breathes out, knows he sounds like he does when he’s getting his _brains_ fucked out, bites his cheek to not smile at the way Billy shivers. “Who _gives_ a fuck?”, and he presses a kiss against a too hot cheek, revels in the way Billy tightens his grip on him. Billy’s jaw’s working, like he’s trying to find words, throat clicking. “I think I deserve a break, yeah?”, and he knows he’s won this round, Billy all red and lets himself be pushed down on the couch. 

“Ten minutes, princess”, Billy gets out, sighing like he didn’t give in the _second_ Steve looked at him. He’s pressing kisses across that golden throat, moves up to those red lips, that ratty mustache he kinda pulls off tickling his lip. Billy tastes like the Runts the kids left behind, all sugar. Billy’s tongue’s twining with his own, exploring like they haven’t kissed a _thousand_ times. Steve’s practically laying on him, pressed against all that muscle, that golden skin. He’s _dizzy_ with how quick he’s chubbing up, blood rushing in his ears. 

“ _Baby_ ”, and Billy _melts_ , underneath him. It kinda blows his mind, the way a _baby_ will make Billy _fucking_ Hargrove go all pliant. “Come on, let’s fuck”, and he can feel Billy, already hard on his thigh. Feels the warmth of him sleeping through two layers of denim, one layer of briefs. 

“I said ten minutes, you have- you need to”, and Billy can’t really get words out, when Steve’s heaving himself up, straddles him. His hips move in tiny circles, just enough for Billy to _feel_ it, feel him move like he’s already riding him. 

“That’s _plenty_ of time, for you”, and it’s a challenge, a dare. It makes Billy’s eyes go all narrowed, hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, probably. Steve’s being lifted, shoved down on the couch before he can take a breath. And it’s heady, knowing how easy it is for Billy to lift him, _move_ him. He’s being caged in, Billy’s arms by his head, hips between his thighs. 

“You’re a damn brat” he’s saying into his neck, where he’s nosing, licking, _biting_. Leaving marks. It’s not like he’s _complaining_ , with the way his hips are grinding into his, like he’s trying to fuck him through his damn jeans. 

They don’t really talk, after that. It’s all desperate, hands clawing under shirts, zipping down jeans. Billy spits in his hand, all gross, wraps it around his dick. No tiptoeing around, grip like a vice, arm tensing. Steve’s moaning, sounds catching in his throat when Billy moves _just like that_. He’s hunched over him, covering every inch of Steve with the bulk of his body. Billy’s jeans are shoved down to his thighs, dick humping against Billy’s hand, Steve’s ass. Like they’re fucking. 

Steve comes all over his rucked up shirt, knows it’s gonna be a bitch to clean. It’s overwhelming, almost too much, head fuzzy and hazy and all he can think about is _Billy_. He’s being _manhandled_ , lets himself be turned over, face pressed against the soft leather of the couch. Billy’s breath is fanning over his ear, his cheek when he _growls_ ,

“Gonna fuck your thighs, okay?”, and yeah, _okay_. Steve’s all boneless, can’t really do anything but _whine_ , lift his hips flush against Billy’s. And there’s spit on his ass, running down his thighs, and it’s _disgusting_ , but Billy’s moaning, dick moving all slick between Steve’s thighs, trapped by the denim pulled down _just_ enough. He’s moving all erratically, like he’s lost control, hands gripping Steve’s hips, going up and under his ruined shirt to play with his nipples. Steve can only claw into the couch, try to keep up. He’s fucking _drooling_ , dick kinda half hard already, from the feeling of Billy over him, fucking his thighs like getting lube and condoms was just too much work. Like he needs him _now_ , or he’ll die. 

He comes with a groan, marks Steve’s ass up, smears his come over his skin. It drips down onto the couch, and it’s gonna stain, if Steve doesn’t do anything about it. Billy’s got enough sense to not collapse onto Steve, pulls at him until they’re where they started, Steve on top of him, head buried in his chest. 

“ _Fuck_ , pretty boy”, and _yeah_ , Steve gets him, tries to tell him. Can’t really get his mouth to function, tongue all heavy. He presses a kiss to Billy’s peck, instead, hopes he gets it. 

Billy’s kinda dozing off, chest lifting with even breaths, arms locked around Steve tight. It’s _soft_ , the glow of _after_ , and it makes his heart all full and eyes a little prickly. He doesn’t really know what to _do_ with all the feelings welling up inside a’ him when Billy’s got him all wrapped up, lips resting against his temple. Knows he’ll never get enough. 

His _stupid_ essay lays there on the floor, and he knows Billy’ll come back to himself and make him write the fucker. He smiles, ‘cause it’s _cute_ , how much of a fucking _nerd_ Billy can be. _His_ nerd.

“Hey”, he starts, chin resting on Billy’s chest so he can look into those blue eyes. He gets a soft _hum_ in return, a hand putting a strand of crowsnest hair behind his ear. He leans just a little closer, nose to nose, makes his eyes all big - all innocent, _like Bambi_ , says, “If I do that _thing_ with my tongue, will you write my essay?”


	14. Cowardice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the tumblr post: flexibility of the word ‘fuck’
> 
> Regret + threat 
> 
> A real angsty one, WARNING for internalized homophobia and homophobic slurs.

“Oh, fuck me!”

It’s paired with a groan and a kick against something, and Steve can’t help the way his palms sweat, the way his hair prickles. His hands clench around a bat that isn’t there, a reflex at this point. It’s probably nothing. He’s by the public pool, there’s nothing that could’ve happened. Nothing like the things he’s looking for, even though he knows they’re _gone_ , the gate’s closed.

He makes his way over, footsteps echoing across the poorly lit, almost empty parking lot. There’s a too familiar car still there, a too familiar shadow hunched over it. Billy Hargrove’s pacing around his car, hood popped. Steve almost ignores him, even though they’re _fine_ , now. Summer brought trips to the public pool, rides to the mall, and shared kind-of friends in the shape of _Buckley, from AP lit._ They’re fine enough to be on almost first name basis, Billy and Harrington. Fine enough to get high together in Steve’s car. Fine enough to plan movie nights just the two of ‘em, ‘cause the Hawk’s basically abandoned thanks to Starcourt. They never got to carry out that plan, shrill ringing and a gruff voice asking to _please help look, she can’t wander off alone_ , interrupting Steve’s night. Eleven was found, shivering cold in the woods, brow furrowed with a _I can protect myself._

Anyway, they’re _fine_ , they’re kinda friends, and Steve needs a distraction from monsters and gates and _upsidedowns_.

“Hey”, he starts, winces at the way Billy jumps, a little. Tenses up, prepares for _something_. He swivels around, meets Steve’s eyes with his own _so_ blue ones.

“What’re you doing here?”, Billy’s voice is all gruff, eyes darting from Steve to his car to the beat up asphalt. And yeah, maybe it’s kinda weird for _Loch Nora Steve_ to be wandering around the public pool after dark.

“Just, y’know, taking a walk”, and Billy doesn’t look like he buys it for shit, but he does look like he wants Steve to _leave_ , jaw working, hands fists by his side. “Car not starting?”, and Steve knows he _does_ that, keeps talking when people just want him to go. _Bullshits_. 

“Yeah”, Billy gets out after a too long pause, and Steve should _leave_ , can’t help anyway, doesn’t know shit about fixing up cars. Instead he shuffles closer, hands in his pockets, wonders if Billy’s cold in his swim trucks and tank.

“I could, uh, give you a ride home? My car’s right down the-”, and it’s the wrong thing to say, Billy’s eyes all cold, jaw tense. Steve doesn’t know why he keeps talking without thinking, without remembering the way Billy’d look, sometimes, hauling himself up on the Beemers hood, cigarette filter stained a little red, hand cradling ribs. “Or, we could just go to my place? My parents aren’t home, so, _y’know_ ”, and Steve’s parents are _never_ home, but that doesn’t matter, and it’s not like Billy _knows_ that.

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”, Billy’s laughing, all bitter, jaw so tight. Words scathing, vicious. And Steve doesn’t _get_ it, doesn’t get what he said until he remembers what he used to say to girls, to _Nancy_. Realizes how it fucking sounds, _my parents aren’t home, so_. And Billy looks so angry, like the thought- the _implications_ of that- It’s not like Steve would _do_ anything, he _wouldn’t_. ‘Cause the weird dreams he’s been having since he and Billy’s been _fine_ , kinda friends, are less important than the fact that Billy’s really his only friend who’s not twelve, and he isn’t forced to spend eight hours of ice cream slinging with him, either.

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like-”, but Billy’s viper quick, body so tense he’s kinda shaking, eyes so fucking _angry_ it makes him take a step back, a reflex. And Steve never really thought something like this’d happen, that he’d be, what, found out? There’s nothing _to_ find out, nothing Steve’d ever, ever act on. Just a _stupid_ misunderstanding of Steve’s jumbled up words.

“I know what you mean, _King Steve_. Want me to suck you off in your car, or what? Want to take me home, fuck me in that bed of yours?”, and Steve’s _sick_ with his biting, poisonous words. Kinda wishes he’d find a ‘gorgon and shriveled up flower faces, instead of this. He knows that it’s not- he’s not a _pervert_ , doesn’t want all that (not the way Billy’s saying it, disgusted and so, so _angry_ ). He wouldn’t- The shame burns through his stomach, prickles in his eyes. He’d _never_ -

“Or is that too faggy? I bet you’d have me here, in the dark. Pretend I’m some chick, pullin’ my hair. You’re a fucking coward, Harrington. Won’t see a goddamn movie but you’ll- you’ll come here acting all-”, and Steve’s ears are ringing, Billy’s voice all dull, in the back of his mind. But the anger’s morphing, blue eyes burning with something _else_. Something new and almost desperate, and Steve doesn’t _get_ it. Doesn’t get what Billy’s talking about when he’s spitting,

“You couldn’t even show up, wouldn’t take a blowjob in the back if it meant going on a _date_. ‘Cause, what, you’re not a fucking _queer_? That’s what you tell yourself, huh? You’re just a fucking _coward_ ”, it’s too much, words catching and repeating like a fucked up record in his head. _You couldn’t even show up._

“ _Billy_ ”, it comes out all mangled, voice shot to hell, and Billy looks at him like he hates him. Looks like he _hates_ him but those eyes are all wet, shining with tears Billy won’t allow to fall. “I don’t- I don’t know what you’re _talking_ about”, and he _doesn’t_ , head reeling from being thrown around, shame becoming hope at _date_ and turned to ash at _fucking coward_.

“Don’t fuck with me, Harrington. You- you stood me up, had me waitin’ like a damn _idiot_ ”, and Steve’s more confused than he’s ever been, hand tugging at his hair, the stinging of his scalp doesn’t do _shit_ to clear his head. _Stood me up_. Like they were supposed to- like they had a _date_ , like Steve’d ever do that. Like he hasn’t been _dreaming_ -

“We’ve never- I haven’t-”, and he doesn’t know what to _say_ , how to say it. ‘Cause Billy’s already said so much, and he’s so fucking _confused_.

“Acting fuckin’ stupid’s never looked good on you, you said you were real _stoked_ to go with me, and you didn’t fucking _show_. How is that not- You said _yes_ and then you-”, and _oh_. The movie. The movie they were gonna watch, just the two of ‘em. The night he ran through the woods looking for a girl more powerful than anything Steve’s ever seen.

“I didn’t _know_ ”, and Billy looks so damn broken, so angry and brave and so tired. Looking at Steve like he doesn’t _believe_ him. “I didn’t know that was- I’m sorry, _fuck_ , shit got in the way and you _told_ me never to call your house, _Billy_ -”

“Don’t-”, but Steve’s doing that _thing_ , he’s talking and _talking_ to not hear any more of Billy’s broken-glass sharp words.

“I can’t stop _thinking_ of you, but it’s not like that, it’s _not_ , and maybe that makes me a- a queer, but I didn’t _know_. If I- I’d never, If I _knew,_ I wouldn’t- I didn’t know it was a _date_ , I _didn’t_ ”, and the words are all jumbled up, ‘cause he’s not good with words like Billy is. Doesn’t know what else _to_ say. He just wants- “If you’d- just, if you’d ask me again and I’d _know_ , I’d say yes- fuck, I didn’t _know_ ”

And he’s panting, where he’s standing, only a parking lot and a flickering lamppost away from Billy. Billy, who’s all silent, eyes big and jaw slack. Overwhelmed. And maybe he said too much, but Billy was looking at him like he _hated_ him, and he’s _not_ , now. He’s looking at him with blue eyes he can’t _read_ , staring him down like he’s waiting for more. Steve doesn’t know what else he’d _say_ , doesn’t know how to say it.

Like a switch, a pin dropping, Billy lets out a _fuck_ , tips his head back, eyes closed. His whole body drops, muscles relaxing, unfurling. The light casts shadows all strange, makes Billy look all golden, like he does in the sun.

“Let me make this right”, and Steve’s kinda pleading, doesn’t wanna leave something all fucked up. Doesn’t wanna have this _thing_ hanging over them, a flesh wound they’d never treat, letting it _rot_ and shrivel up and-

“Yeah”, and it’s so quiet he almost thinks Billy didn’t even say it, but there’s a couple a’ blue eyes staring him down, and Billy isn’t looking at him like he _hates_ him, anymore “Tell me you got beer at yours”, and it’s an opening. An end. It’s a relief, even though they need to _talk_. Talk about what Billy said, talk about what this all _means_. But they’re standing in the abandoned parking lot by the _pool_ , and Billy’s shivering, not from anger, and Steve’s so _tired_ and so fucking _relieved_. He nods his head _yes_ , says,

“Come on, my car’s down the block”, and ignores Billy’s _why the fuck you need a car to take a walk?_

They don’t talk much, in the car. They don’t really talk at Steve’s either. They grab beer and Billy puts on the sweatshirt Steve throws at him without arguing. They put on a movie, and Steve can’t help but huff a little laugh, ‘cause they spiraled so damn _hard_ , ‘cause he’s been crying and laughing all day, anyway.

Steve doesn’t remember which movie they chose, doesn’t look at the screen much. Can’t tear his eyes away from Billy, and Billy keeps _looking_ at him too. Stealing glances, staring longer with every time Steve catches him. They should _talk_ , unpack all the shit Billy threw at him, understand what’s happening. But it’s so damn easy to forget why they even _need_ to talk, when Billy’s eyes are so damn _blue_ , when he looks so _soft_ in Steve’s sweatshirt. When he lets Steve hold his hand through a two hour movie he doesn’t watch a single second of.


	15. All Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the post: flexibility of the word ‘fuck’
> 
> Resignation + sexual

It’s bad. He’s pretty sure something’s actually burning, ‘cause none of the burners on his shitty stove actually work like they should. It’s so _bad_ , and there’s a failed try in the trash already, but he needs to make it work. ‘Cause that’s who he is, apparently. He’s gone _soft_ , cooking up some bullshit meal ‘cause _Steve_ said he liked it. He had to ask _Mrs. Henderson_ for the recipe, had to throw away too much money on fresh ingredients and like, herbs. And he’s _good_ at cooking, had to be. Had to be useful. But he’s lit something on _fire_ , and Steve’s comin’ over any minute, and Billy doesn’t really like how _soft_ he is, how important the mess of unidentifiable stew in the sink is.

It doesn’t feel _real_ , that he’s standing in his own cramped kitchen, cooking for his _boyfriend_. It’s like the dreams he’d have, the one’s he’d wake up from so _angry_ , ‘cause he was stupid enough to dream about shit that’d never happen. Not to him. But he’s _there_ , he’s alive and he’s kinda _okay_. And he’s gotta boyfriend, one he cooks for and wants to be good for, one he _loves_. He’s got Steve, and _Steve’s_ got keys to Billy’s shitty apartment. The apartment with a good for nothin’ stove and a fire alarm that’s gonna start wailing any goddamn second. The sink’s piled high with pots and pans and mushed up rice, and Billy’s hair will join the mess with how hard he’s pulling it.

“Fuck it”, and it’s too loud in his tiny kitchen, but _fuck it_. It doesn’t even matter. It’s not like he promised Steve some fancy fuckin’ dinner, it’s not important. He just wanted to be _good_ , ‘cause he’s all _soft_ and Steve brings something outta him that he can’t even explain. Something that used to make him _seething_ , made him wanna tear him apart. Now it gives him butterflies in his damn stomach, all that girly shit he can’t really hate, anymore.

He’s clutching the phone, flipping through the notebook Steve taped by it to find the number to the place where the pizza’s at least two bucks more expensive, but they always put too much cheese and Steve always buys it, when he hears the lock jam like it always does when you turn the key too fast. And he knows it’s Steve, can’t control the way his heart flips, a little. Billy’s kitchen’s a mess, and he didn’t even fix his _hair_ , didn’t have time, but _Steve’s_ there, all smiles and soft hair and _his_. And Steve’s pressing a kiss to his lips before he’s even got his jacket off, cold hands pressed to his back.

“Hey”, and Billy sounds fuckin’ _breathless_ , all soft in Steve’s arms. He plants a kiss to Steve’s jaw, to the mole there, smiles into it when Steve winds a hand into his hair, tugs a little.

“Hi”, he breathes back, all familiar and slow ‘cause they’ve got all the time in the damn _world_. “It smells good, did you cook?”. _Right_. Steve’s already movin’ to the kitchen, and like, Billy doesn’t want him to see the shitshow of overcooked rice and burnt stew and mushy greens. ‘Cause it’s _embarrassing_ and so stupid that he even cares.

“ _Yeah_ ”, he drags out, gets a hand ‘round that waist to keep Steve close. “I mean, I _tried_. I made that thing you’re always talkin’ about. The stew thing, y’know, the one you said you always-“, and Steve’s cutting him off with a bruising kiss, and he’s relieved, ‘cause he was ranting like some moron. Steve’s got his jaw cradled in his hands, presses all close, and Billy kinda gets lost in the way Steve feels under his fingertips, his palms.

“You made that, for me?”, and Steve sounds so fuckin’ shocked, eyes all big like it’s about so much more than some Italian fuckin’ stew.

“Well”, and it’s so _stupid_ , how Steve’s eyes are so damn big, how he’s all exited. “It’s a shitshow, uh, it’s not edible”, and he wants to tack on a _sorry_ , wants to look away, to not see the way Steve’ll dim, a little. Doesn’t wanna see all that ehtusiasm get lost.

“I love you”, and Steve sounds so _gone_ , breathes it out right by Billy’s ear, holds him close, leaves kisses everywhere he can reach. “I _fucking_ love you”, and it’s so much, Billy’s heart’s gonna _burst_ , lift outta his damn chest, and Steve’s kissing him like he can’t get enough.

“I fucked it up, pretty boy, I don’t know why you’re all exited”, and Steve’s laughing, pulling Billy _closer_ , and Billy’s helpless, can’t do anything but follow.

“You still _did_ it, you cooked for me ‘cause you remembered that I-“, and he cuts himself off, presses another sugary sweet kiss to Billy’s lips. “You _listened_ ”, and it’s so much _there_ , so much to _find_ in those breathy words, those whiskey eyes.

“I was gonna order takeout” he murmurs when Steve’s lips find his neck, mouthing at where his pulse is rushing, running.

“ _Or_ ”, Steve says against the crook of his neck, hands sneaking under his shirt, fingers splayed over scars and golden skin gone pale. “We could just fuck”, and it sends shivers all the way down his spine, makes him groan a little, ‘cause Steve’s _all_ over him, can’t get enough. And it’s different from _before_ , from the hunger and desperation when they were seventeen, eighteen and couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. It’s so much _more_ , makes his head spin, makes his heart ache in a too sweet way.

They fall onto the couch Billy bought from Hopper for a cigarette and a handshake, hands all over, lips smearing hot against cheeks, throats. It’s too small for both of ‘em, and Billy’s got a perfectly good bed he payed too much for not to use. But it’s too _much_ to move, break the spell. And he’s not even sure his legs would _work_ , with the way Steve’s grinding down on him, rucking his shirt up to kiss and mouth all over gnarled skin, his nipples. There’s a hand working on his zipper, a “playing hard to get?” paired with a laugh and a kiss to his collarbone when Steve’s met with grey briefs. Billy moans in return, when Steve licks him through the briefs, mouths until spit and precome makes them dark and cling to his skin.

He‘s not all tease, like he is sometimes, doesn’t keep Billy on the edge of sanity until he can’t remember his own damn _name_. Wraps his lips around him, tongue laving over the head of his dick like he can’t get enough of the taste. He makes it all messy, lets saliva and pre gather, run down his chin, smear across his cheeks. His eyes are wet, brown meeting blue, refusing to let go. Billy can feel himself hitting the back of Steve’s throat, feels him swallow, around him. It’s _overwhelming_ , Steve bobbing his head like he can’t get him deep enough, even when his nose’s buried in Billy’s coarse hair.

The whole world narrows down to _Steve_ , his tongue, his lips, to his hands in that hair, gripping, when he comes. Steve lets up to catch the last of his come on his lips, his cheek. Keeps looking at Billy, licks at his swollen, slick lips. _Can’t get enough._ Drags his tongue once over Billy’s too sensitive head. Makes his thighs twitch, rips out a groan outta his throat.

He crawls his way up Billy’s body, comes nose to nose. Kisses Billy all sweet before whispering,

“You’re gonna fuck me, now”, and it makes Billy _shudder_ , spent dick kicking up against Steve’s thigh. Fuck.

They trip over themselves, making their way to the bedroom. Steve can’t stop touching him, rips Billy’s shirt off, tripping outta his own pants and briefs. Steve’s hard, leaking against his stomach, against Billy’s when he pushes close.

Billy fingers Steve against the dresser in his bedroom with uneven legs, fingers _dripping_ with lube, stretching, searching within Steve. His hips are canting back against his fingers, fucking himself on ‘em. Steve’s head dropped forward makes it easy for Billy to leave kisses across his neck, bite down on that first knob of his spine.

“ _Fuck_ ” Steve gets out, spasming in his arms, against Billy. “Just- fuck me”, and it’s delicious, the way he sounds. Completely fucked out. Sounds like he can’t get e- _fuckin_ ’-nough. And they’re draped over the dresser like the bed isn’t _right_ there, all desperate, sugary sweet and _aching_. And Billy’s moaning with Steve, just from the heat of him wrapped around three of his fingers, from the way Steve’s drenched in sweat, muscles coiled and tense under him.

“Yeah” he answers, half delirious with expectation. He pulls out slow, can’t rip his eyes away from the lube still gathered in Steve, dripping out. He steers him to the bed, smiles when Steve whines, reaches for him after not even a second of _not-close._

Sinking into Steve is nothin’ he can describe. He’s too soft, swears Steve’s special. Tight and _oh_ so warm, squirming under him. Locking him in place with his thighs, hands gripping his shoulders like Billy’s not close enough. It builds up slower, now, he can still feel the tingling of Steve blowing him like it’s his damn _job_ , but Steve’s been on the edge since they started. His hips are snapping, moving all erratically, hand snaking down to jerk Steve off. He’s _weeping_ pre, gets real wet when he’s turned on outta his _mind_. Makes it _sloppy_ , wets Billy’s hand, their stomachs.

He sees _white_ , when he comes, hips stuttering, moans all loud and _desperate_ , matching Steve’s whines, his groans. Steve clenches around him, locking him in, comes with his head thrown back, throat bared. They’re panting like _dogs_ , sweat and come and desperation heavy in the air.

When Steve lets him go he’s soft and over sensitive and it’s kind of too much, but he _gets_ it. Gets the feelin’ of _can’t let go_. Steve curls around him, hand thrown over his scarred stomach, tracing ridges and valleys of destroyed skin.

“Fuck, I’ll cook more often”, he says, like a goddamn _moron_ , ‘cause he’s all fucked out, high on the daze of _after_. Steve kinda pushes at him, but it’s more of a pet, his hand lingering on his shoulder. He looks _blissed out_ , eyes heavy, lips gleaming with sweat and spit and something that’s all honey, all Steve.

They’re dozing off, almost asleep, all tangled up in sheets they should probably change. They haven’t even eaten, wasn’t really _important_ , when Steve was _on_ him like he just couldn’t get _enough_. But it’s so nice, so damn _soft_ , to lay curled up with Steve, tracing moles and shoulders and slopes of jaws.

“Hey” he starts up, locks his eyes with Steve’s hazy ones. Smiles at how Steve’s all nuzzled up in his pillow, hair a fuckin’ mess. And they’re on the cusp of sleep, barely there, but he can’t _go_ without making _sure_ , making sure he _knows_. Without kissing a too hot cheek, without breathing out a, “I _fucking_ love you, too”


	16. Existing outside a’ time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A soft drabble I wrote for @your-pretty-bambi on Tumblr.

It’s the first time in a long while he’s felt like a reckless teenager. He’s nineteen, but he feels too damn _old_ , grey hairs and aching shoulders already there. But there’s some kinda lightness in him now, speeding down highways in the Camaro with Billy in the passenger seat ‘cause _I’m on fuckin’ snack duty._ And it makes his heart soar, the way he’s trusted with the Camaro, and it’s so much more than a stupid car. It’s so much _more_ , and he feels like he’s _flying_ , wind tugging his hair, Billy’s laugh filling up his head until it’s everything. And it’s stupid, so _stupid_ if they get caught, halfway across the ‘States with junkfood piled high and stolen suits and a good chunk of Steve’s college fund in the backseat.

Every mile closer to California rips a laugh outta Billy’s golden throat, makes him relax into the seat, makes his fingers curl tighter against Steve’s. And it’s heady, the speed of them, the way the sun’s high in the sky still, the way Hawkins is hours away. It’s _dumb_ , getting lost in that feeling, ‘cause they’re on borrowed time, kids playing grown ups for a weekend, three days. They have to go back, but Hawkins doesn’t exist here, in the middle of nowhere. ‘Cause everything that exists is _Billy_ , dimples on display, blue eyes crinkling with excitement and giddy laughter and a _freedom_ Steve’s never really seen before.

He speeds up, just to hear that laugh again.

-

It’s all dark when they reach Santa Barbara, but this dark doesn’t hide monsters, ‘cause there’s streetlights everywhere, _people_ everywhere. It’s alive, all vibrant and free like Billy should be, like he’s learning to be again.

Billy’s shouting directions that aren’t more helpful than the map they found in Steve’s dad’s office, he didn’t live here, but he acts like he’s _home_ , and Steve’s fucking smitten. They find water eventually, an ocean that takes Steve’s breath away almost as much as the one he finds in Billy’s eyes. He _gets_ it, the love for it, the need Billy has. The way the ocean calls for him where he’s stuck in Hawkins. And it’s selfish, the warmth in his chest, ‘cause _he_ brought Billy back. Even if it’s only a weekend of playing grown up, _business associates._

_Business associates_ checking into some kinda hotel with separate huts, right on the beach. Practically in the water. They called in advance, _Mr. Harrington, Mr. Hargrove,_ booking a single to save money, _you know how it is._ And it’s stupid, reckless, they’re playing with fire. Waiting to get caught, like a kid dressing up in daddy’s suit. The suits are Steve’s though, ugly things he’s got in a closet he barely uses, all wrinkly from laying around, too short pant legs and ties all wrong. They shuffled ‘em on in the car, giggling and stupid, pitching their voices deep, talking all, _it’s a pleasure, Mr. Hargrove._

The reception is almost empty, when they wander in, duffelbags shoved over shoulders. Steve does the talking, ignores the way Billy smiles all sharp at the girl sitting behind a desk covered in seashells. Trades a wad of cash for a key and _a, it’s the eight one south, just follow the path._ She doesn’t look twice at them, sighs all heavy when she hears _associates_. Lets them find their way to their own little hut without trouble.

It’s small, but all open and airy with big windows facing white sand lit up by the moon. And it was _expensive_ , all linen and gold and a too big hot tub, and his parents are _so_ gonna notice. But it was pretty much his money anyway, and it’s worth it ‘cause of the way Billy’s smiling, eyes shining, arms locking around Steve’s waist. It’s so worth it. Their bags are thrown on the bed, a king, and Billy has him all wrapped up in a hug, cheek brushing his neck. They’re kinda swaying, in the middle of some overpriced damn hut, the one Steve took Billy to ‘cause he _promised_ , that they’d see the ocean, one day.

“Thank you”, it’s low, quiet, lips pressed against his jaw, hands cradling his sides. And it makes him all jello, makes him sigh, pull Billy closer. He’s pressing kisses onto those honey curls, even though they’re all sweaty and spent all day in a car.

“Told you I’d take you, yeah?”, and the reply is a kiss, soft against his lips. Not pushing, just pressing slow, all tender and easy. They’ve got time. They stand there too long, even though the suits are itchy and ridicoulus, even thought there’s a damn jacuzzi in the bathroom, a king sized bed _right there._

And they’re moving slow, pulling at ties and shirts and belts, throwing their clothes wherever. And they’re gonna forget about them, leave ugly striped ties and shirts under hotel dressers and beds, but that’s not really _important_ , when Billy’s leading him to the shower big enough to fit five dedicated people. There’s lips on his throat, his jaw, hands carding through his hair. The water’s all warm straight away, washes away grime and sweat and salt, relaxes his muscles almost as well as the way Billy’s hands rub over his back, his belly.

They don’t really do anything, play _nice_ , working shampoo into hair and trading wet kisses, all smiles and tired laughs and _freedom_. Toweling off seems like too much work, and they’re dripping all over the carpet, tripping over each other to get to bed. Billy’s all shower warm, pliant, against him. Drapes himself over him, cages Steve in under clean blankets and soft linen. And his kisses are all tongue, slick and messy and lazy, hands wandering, hips stuttering against his own. And Steve’s hard in some kinda unhurried way, like they’ve got all the time in the fucking world. He’s palming Billy’s ass, lips latching on to a bared throat, and they’re humping against each other, pre making it all _sloppy_ , ‘cause he gets real wet, like this. He’s got Billy between his thighs, kinda wants to get the lube and condoms he threw in before anything else when they packed. But it’s too _much_ , and Billy’s pressing him down into too many pillows, fingers tracing his nipples. Trailing _down_ , playing with his pleasure trail, ending up wrapped around his dick, loose and slow and all sweet torture. It’s revenge, the way he lets his fingers slip between cheeks, trace around Billy’s rim, push a little. His little laugh gets cut off by a kiss, a flick of a wrist that makes him moan.

They come all over each other, chests heaving, lips locked in a kiss thats more them panting all close, and it’s kinda gross, but the bed’s big, and Billy’s yawning, nuzzling against Steve, all clingy and soft and ready to doze off, even though he’s got Steve’s spunk drying on his skin. Steve falls asleep easy, even though the hut smells different and the sound of waves is unfamiliar. Maybe ‘cause the smell of them takes over, ‘cause the sound of Billy’s snuffles against his chest is all that matters.

-

He wakes up to liquid gold pouring outta big windows, to Billy heavy by his side, pillowed on his chest. And it grips his heart, the way he’s so damn _happy_ , with Billy all close, on the beach, at home. And it’s _not_ home, they’re _pretending_ , but it doesnt matter if Hawkins will exist again after the weekend, if they’re gonna get _so_ caught ‘cause they're reckless and _stupid_. He doesn’t care, not when Billy’s right there, blinking awake, eyes all blue like the ocean right outside. When he smiles like the fucking sun, even though he’s squinting at the real deal like it’s evil. There’s blankets thrown over them, closing in on them, and it doesnt do shit, but Billy still sighs and says, _that’s the shit_ , stares down at Steve like- like he’s _something_. And he’s gone, heart filled to the brim with all sorts of shit, hands grabbing at Billy outta reflex. The first kiss doesnt land on waiting lips, ‘cause Billy bends down, sheets ruffling with the movement, presses a kiss to Steve’s shoulder, lingers there. Litters a whole bunch of them there, shoulder to elbow and up to his neck, and Steve’s giggling with it, laugh turned into sighs when Billy’s tongue laves against his skin. A kiss against his cheek is paired with a,

“I can’t believe we’re here”, and Steve curls a hand into that hair to press a bruise of a kiss onto red lips, tries to say, _it’s like I’m fucking dreaming,_ with a press of his tongue against Billy’s.

Kisses turn lazy, again, when they’re closed off from the world, hidden under hotel blankets, sun shining through, lighting Billy right up. This is where he belongs. And Billy ends up against his chest again, ear pressed to his heart in a gesture all familiar, now. And he’s whispering,

“Can’t wait until this is life”, soft and vulnerable, and it makes him _ache_ , builds up a dangerous hope in Steve’s gut. ‘Cause it’s all _secure_ , the way Billy’s talking about them, now. The way this will be _theirs_ , one day. When they don’t have to play house and wish away Hawkins for a weekend, when they get away and stay there. Stay _free_.

“It’ll be soon, baby”, he gets out, voice thick from sleep and emotions and happiness, hides it in Billy’s hair.

Billy seems happy to sleep away the day, hidden away, stretched like a cat, all over Steve. That is, until Steve starts talking about beaches and oceans and tourists, until the sun’s real high. And Billy’s jumping up, pulls Steve up with him and sheets to the floor, strides across the room all naked, tongue wagging at Steve, his eyes locked on planes of muscle and golden skin and those fucking thighs.

And Billy’s saying, “That ocean won’t swim itself, pretty boy”, looks ready to fall into it all naked, huffs when Steve throws red trunks at him, pouts when Steve pulls on his own blue one’s. Says it’s _a shame to hide the goods_. Idiot. He gets a kiss for his troubles, cops a feel and laughs when Steve shoves him away, then pulls him right back.

And they’re right on the beach, six steps away from the water lapping at white sand. And they’re _home_ , even if Hawkins is waiting for ‘em, and Billy’s smiling at him like he hung the _moon_ , smiles at Steve like he smiles at the ocean, all warm and happy and _free_. Throws himself into blue that almost matches those eyes, pulls Steve right down with him, his laugh all Steve can hear. And yeah. It’s home.


	17. We’re gonna get out of here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tackle hug prompt
> 
> Send in your own prompt or idea over on my tumblr @awickedplacethisis

His hands are shaking. They’re always shaking, nowadays. New skin pulled tight, scars itching and always _there_. But they’re shaking enough to make the paper clutched in his hands wobble and shake with them, eyes blurring the words he’s been reading over three, four, _six_ times.

_We are pleased to welcome you at-_

He got in. He got _in_ , and he’s fucking _shaking_ , slumped in a kitchen chair in his own damn kitchen, fists crumbling the acceptance to UCL- _fucking_ -A. And fuck admission costs, fuck scolarships and housing and _whatever_ the fuck, ‘cause he got in. He worked his ass off, came back to the land of the living, and he fucking made it. He’s crying in his fuckin’ kitchen, all ‘cause of a letter. ‘Cause of a couple of words, printed out on paper. _He got in._

He’s still sittin’ like that, all shaking, frozen in time, when he hears shuffling by the door, a vacant _hi, baby_. He’s standing up by the time Steve reaches the kitchen, the one that’s more _theirs_ than anything, hair all ruffled, brows furrowed like that.

“Bill?”, and he’s so soft, voice worried and hushed, fists clenching around grocery bags.

And he just _crumbles_ , ‘cause he can’t believe this is his _life_ , can’t believe he’s got Steve Harrington right there, looking at him with eyes so _soft_ , can’t believe there’s an acceptance letter to _UCLA_ on his ugly kitchen table. He’s cryin’ like some damn _sissy_ , laughing too.

“Fuck, baby, _talk_ to me”, and Steve looks terrified, hovering over him like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch, ‘cause sometimes he’s _not_ , when Billy gets like _that_. But it’s not _like_ that, now, ‘cause he got in, and he’s got Steve Harrington lookin’ at him like he _cares_ , and he’s _okay_.

“I got in”, and he sounds delirious, voice fucked up from crying and laughin’ over a fuckin’ _letter_. And Steve’s face twists from worry to confusion to something all too light, eyes darting from Billy to the table and onto that letter, crumpled there. And he’s laughing, face splitting in half by a smile so damn big, so proud. Groceries are being dropped, spilling out from paper bags, and Steve’s charging at him, throws himself at Billy, makes them trip all over themselves, and they end up on the floor, Billy caged in Steve’s arms, all breathless. And they’re so damn _close_ , and his ribs are aching in that way they always do, but he still twists, comes closer, searches out pink lips, kisses against them even though they’re both smiling too big for it. And Steve’s laughing, still, against his lips, arms pulled tight around him, eyes all crinkled.

“You got in. Shit, of _course_ you did, you got _in_ ”, and he sounds so damn light, so happy, all ‘cause of Billy, and it’s too much, forces a tear from his eye, a sigh when Steve nuzzles it away with the bridge of his nose. And they’re on the damn _floor_ , and Billy feels like a gross mix of too many emotions, but Steve’s right there with him, pulled him down onto their kitchen floor, laughing and smiling and holding him all _close_.

They stay on the floor for way too long, enough for the scars engraved in his chest to start pulling, aching, and it only takes a shuffle, a barely there sigh, for Steve to tense up, pull his face away from the crook of Billy’s neck, say, “Oh my god, you _really_ shouldn’t be on the floor, fuck”, and pull him right up. Keeps him close, tangles their fingers together, holds him like that. And they’re still laughing, all wet and ecstatic and too much, pressing kisses in the shape of smiles over necks and cheeks and lips.

“We’re gonna get out of here”, Steve mumbles it against his cheekbone, voice so soft, a rumble Billy feels where they’re plastered all close. And it makes him still, the way he says it. _We’re gonna get out of here_. And there’s so much he wants to say, wants to play over the _we_ in his head a thousand times. Wants to cling just a little closer, and he does, ‘cause he can, now. And Steve doesn’t falter, clings right back, all wrapped around him, warm and soft and real. _Safe_.

“Yeah, we will.”


	18. Tiresome days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tired hug prompt
> 
> It was easy to write tired boys when I myself am a very tired boy. 
> 
> Check out my tumblr for more chaos - or request a prompt of your own. @awickedplacethisis

It’s been a while since he felt like this. Bone deep tired, hollowed out and empty. He hasn’t really felt like this since July, strapped onto a chair injected with who knows what. Sunken down into another, staring at a slack face, only knowing that Billy Hargrove was alive thanks to the sounds of machines helping him breathe, echoing his heartbeat. But that was months ago, and it’s inching closer to June already, and he hasn’t felt like this in months. ‘Cause he should be happy, _is_ happy. The brats are safe, getting over shit they never should’ve experienced in the first place, living out their summer and dragging him with ‘em, sometimes. Robin’s safe, his best damn friend, she’s _safe_ and learning how to not flinch when someone sneaks up behind her. He’s right there with her. They’re still at Family Video together, even after Steve knocked over two shelves in a panic, after Robin stole Keith’s entire workplace Cheeto stash. They’re friends, close enough for Robin to moon and whine about girls Steve’s been looking less and less at for a whole fucking year. Hasn’t looked at all these last few months. Close enough for her to know about that thing that should have him happy, _not like this_. Billy. _Billy Hargrove_ makes him happy, so damn happy, makes something bubble in his stomach, floating up into his lungs.

Billy Hargrove. Billy, who beat his face in back in ‘84, _lifetimes_ ago. Who apologized that March, who spent the start of summer staring him down in his tiny lifeguard shorts. Who spent the rest of it playing puppet for the mind flayer. Who broke free, sacrificed himself for a girl he’d never seen before. Billy, who kissed him in October ‘85, when Steve hugged him all ecstatic, ‘cause he was healthy enough to leave the hospital. _Alive_ enough. Billy, who lives in an apartment down main street that the government got him in exchange for silence when it comes to monsters made outta flesh and chemicals. Billy, who’s softer now. Who kisses Steve like he’s _everything_ , who invites him over for dinner and movies Steve takes from his job ‘cause no one rents them anyways, who presses his lips to the scar by his hairline, muttering a _I’m so sorry_ every damn time.

And thinking of Billy can’t even make him smile, makes his heart ache too sweet, but that heaviness doesn’t leave. And maybe it’s there ‘cause it’s summer, and the smell of sun and ice cream and chlorine will always mean something more, now. Maybe it’s there ‘cause his parents _aren’t_ , leaving for the tropics or the city or _whatever_ the fuck, with a tap on his shoulder and a, _don’t touch the liquor._ Maybe it’s ‘cause of _nothing_ , and that scares him the most. How he’s supposed to be so damn _happy_ , how he’s been sleeping better now that he spends his nights tangled up in Billy. And he’s still so fucking tired.

Robin notices, sees how stacking shelves and rewinding tapes seem like too much effort, how Steve doesn’t really talk, how his mouth’s shut for once. She notices, pokes his ribs and says _talk to me_ , and he says _I’m fine_ ‘cause he’s _always_ fine, should be. But he feels fucking empty. So damn hollow, all bullshit. But he says he’s _fine_ ‘cause he always is, stares at the mess of tapes and ugly movie posters he’s supposed to organize until he’s free to go.

He doesn’t go home, even though his gut keeps telling him that he is, that Billy’s ugly apartment’s more home than anything else. He almost doesn’t, not when all he can think about his how tired he is, how nothing seems important, today. But _not_ seeing Billy isn’t something he does, not now. And maybe he’s clingy, ruining shit with the way he can’t be left alone. But he doesn’t really _care_ , not after all the shit they’ve been through. Not today.

It takes him too long to walk over to Billy’s, even though the place is way too close to be convenient for his work ethic. His feet are too heavy in the stairway, hands gripping the railway, heaving himself up. There’s sixteen more steps to reach Billy’s floor, eight from the door to his ratty couch. And it feels like to much, but he makes it. Unlocks Billy’s door with hands that _shouldn’t_ be shaking, steps inside. Breaths in. And it smells like home, all comfort and soft and _Billy_.

Billy’s in the kitchen, and Steve can see him from where he’s standing by the door, ‘cause the apartment is tiny and inconvenient and impossible to hide in. He’s slumped over textbooks and papers, head in his palms, spine bent and shoulders down. He looks so fucking _tired_ , and Steve wants to- wants to be _normal_ , wants to shake off his own hollowed exhaustion, ‘cause Billy needs him. Needs him to be there and happy and smiling, ‘cause _Billy’s_ the one who’s tired. Who’s been catching up, working double speed all winter and spring to graduate with his year, like he wasn’t torn right open last July. Like he didn’t _die_. And he really tries, tries to smile when Billy looks up, eyes so blue, mouth red with how he’s probably been licking at his lips in that way he does when he thinks.

“Billy”, and his voice hitches, catches, and Billy’s right in front of him, walks those nine steps from the kitchen to the doorway, looks at him all sharp, eyes staring right through him.

“What’s up?”, and that’s all it takes, apparently, for Billy to notice. To see him. And he wants to say, _I’m fine_ , wants to smile all big in that way Billy says _gets_ to him. ‘Cause Billy’s been working so fucking hard, will graduate high school with better grades than Steve even though he came back from the _dead_ , all in time for Christmas. But it doesn’t come, that cookie cutter response he’s been perfecting for years, ‘cause his throat’s all thick, heart breating slow but so hard that it hurts, and Billy just looks at him with those eyes, searching. And he shrugs, curls a hand in Billy’s hoodie, the one with a stain where Steve spilled coffee all over when _he_ was wearing it.

“You wanna talk ‘bout it?”, and there’s nothing to _talk_ about, no words to get out, ‘cause he _shouldn’t_ be feeling this way, and he wants to snap out of it, wants to erase the tired slump of Billy’s shoulders, kiss away the circles under those eyes.

“I’m just- I want-“, and he’s never been good with words, can’t get the right one’s out, but Billy smiles like he gets it, opens his arms up for Steve to crash into him. Billy’s hoodie is soft under his cheek, hair unstyled and all soft, too. Billy’s arms lock around his middle, wrap around him, grounds him. He has a hand on Billy’s back, splayed over the muscle he won back in record time, another curled in his hair, carding through it. They lean against each other, swaying, barely holding themselves up. Billy hides a yawn in the crook of his neck, leans his weight on Steve. And he’s all pliant, so _tired_ , and his chest _glows_ , when Billy lets him see this. Have him like this.

“You tired, baby?”, and Billy nods into his chest, nuzzles closer, makes him smile despite the heaviness locked in his lungs.

“Me too”, and it’s some sorta confession, something Steve’s never said, ‘cause he’s always _fine_. And Billy _gets_ it, how it’s something more, how two words mean so many _more_ , Steve knows he does. Sees it in those eyes when Billy pulls back, just a little. When Billy presses a closed mouthed kiss to his lips, nudges his nose to his.

“Let’s head to bed”, it’s all rumbly, said against his lips like a kiss. And he’s so grateful, wants to say so many things he doesnt have the words for, settles for a _yeah_ and steals another kiss.

He’s still tired, still feels the emptiness gnawing at him from the inside, when Billy scoots close to him under the covers, hugs him close, noses at his jaw. But maybe it’s _okay_ , that he doesn't know why he feels like this when he really shouldn’t. Maybe it doesn’t really matter what he should feel. ‘Cause that’s _bullshit_ , the way his feelings revived around other people, all eager to please. Maybe he’s _allowed_ to be like this, fucked up and hollow, some days. ‘Cause it seems unimportant, less terrifying, when he’s got Billy all around him, saying, _it’s okay, sweetheart_ , and, _I’m here._


	19. Always okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @greyspilot!! <3
> 
> Dialogue prompt “don’t hide, not from me, please”
> 
> A heavy dose of angst and some softness in the end.

Steve was six the first time it happened. The first time he was old enough to remember. The yelling, the sound of the phone ringing and _ringing_ and his parents screaming themselves hoarse over _who is she_ and _don’t you dare_ and stuff Steve didn’t get, then, when he was curled up on the stairs in pyjama pants that were too big and a tee he made for him _mom_ at school, painted it all nice with special paint, the tee that was put in his dresser after a day or a minute.

He was six when he was stupid enough to bring it up. When he asked if everyone’s _okay_ , when he wanted to know what made his mom and dad who can be real _quiet_ and _not there_ yell all like that.

He was six when he _got_ that you’re not allowed to ask that. You don’t ask questions with obvious answers. _Obviously_ they’re okay. Because the wine spilled last night was all cleaned up, because there’s a gift card in his moms purse and a trip booked to New York. They’re _fine_.

He tries not to ask stupid questions, again.

Doesn’t ask if they’re _okay_ when he’s eight and his dad missed his birthday and his mom cried even though she only remembered after Tommy from school came ‘round with a cupcake he said his _abuela_ made.

Doesn’t ask if they’re _all good_ when he’s fourteen and the vase he almost tripped over that one time was gone, all traces _gone_ except for the shard he found by the sink, played with until his palm was bleeding and threatening to drip red onto the too clean tiles.

It’s not something they do, the Harringtons. You don’t ask stupid questions. You don’t ask if things are _okay_ because they always are. _You’re always okay._

Steve Harrington is always okay.

He’s fine, he _is_. Even after years of monsters and bullshit and too much _death_ at eighteen. He’s fine because he’s Steve Harrington, he’s got every goddamn reason to be fine. He didn’t get _taken_ , didn’t loose family to a monster made outta melted flesh and chemicals, didn’t get lost in the upside down.

People don’t need him to walk ‘round whining about shit, he knows that. Knows that it’s better to keep that shit to yourself, ‘cause it’s _unbecoming of a young man to cry about his problems_. So he doesn’t. He’s fine, he’s _big_ _smile_ Steve and he’s _babysitter_ Steve and _good friend_ Steve. He’s _fine_.

He’s _fine,_ and he’s the guy who trips over his own feet, and the guy who’s got a car to drive you ‘round in, and the friend who listens to girls talk about other girls that he’s barely been looking at, lately.

‘Cause he’s been busy looking at Billy Hargrove. Billy Hargrove who came back to life after being torn to pieces by a monster he was meant to feed, meant to be. He’s been looking and looking and thinking about _If I would go back in time and fix it, fix us, I would._

He kept looking until Robin noticed, until _Billy_ did. Until Robin said _we_ do _move in herds_ and Billy said _you’re kinda obvious, pretty boy._ And at that point Steve doesn’t really have anything to _loose_ , not after years of fighting monsters, not after too much fucking _bullshit_. He kisses Billy Hargrove ‘cause he can’t _not_ , anymore. Kisses him and expects scarred hands to curl into fists. Expects _what the fuck is wrong with you._ He gets a shaking hand curled around the hem of his tee. And that hand doesn’t really _leave_ , _Billy_ doesn’t. Billy _stays_ and smiles and presses kisses onto Steve’s lips every second they’re alone.

And Steve’s _good boyfriend_ Steve now, too. For real, at least he tries to. No bullshit, this time. He’s _good_ for Billy, kisses the scars wrapped around his torso, laughs when Billy jokes with him in a way he never did before, smiles when he talks, _really_ talks, ‘cause they couldn’t get a damn word outta him, the first weeks after the hospital. And he’s fine, ‘cause Billy needs someone who’s _fine_ when he still wakes up heaving, crying from the memories of fireworks setting him on fire.

So Steve’s fine. Makes sure that’s all he is, for Billy. For everyone. He’s funny and harmless and not really king, not really that asshole anymore. He’s a good boyfriend and he _wants_ to be, wants to be there for Billy. Can’t go dumping his _bullshit_ on someone who deserves so much more. Everything’s _okay_ , and everything’s good and amazing and terrifying but it’s- it’s _okay_.

There are nights he doesn’t sleep. So many of ‘em, and maybe it’s a problem, but it’s still- he’s still _fine_. He just makes sure Billy doesn’t see him like that, a mess tangled up in sweat soaked sheets, eyes shot red and face all blotchy. Head fucked up and pictures of his people dying, burned alive or torn through by monsters they killed running through his head too fast, monsters that are _gone_ and have no business making him cry, still. It gets harder, ‘cause the nightmares don’t go away, but he stays over more, stays at Billy’s apartment that’s starting to feel more like a _home_ than the house he’s always lived in.

It gets harder to keep saying _I’m fine_ when his parents haven’t been home for weeks, when he doesn’t even know if they’re at the same place, same time zone.

It gets harder when Robin keeps _looking_ at him like that, keeps noticing shadows under his eyes and the way his hands shake like Billy’s do, still. When she asks if he’s _okay_ too many times, like that’s something- like it _matters_. Like that’s not one of those _stupid_ questions you’re not supposed to ask. He’s _fine_.

She keeps _asking_ and his hands keep shaking and the clock tick, tick, ticks down until his shift is done and he’s due at Billy’s. And he brings over a movie he doesn’t look at but knows they keep in the front of the store so it _has_ to be good, steals snacks from the counter ‘cause he _can_ and Billy always kisses him that much harder, when he does it. And fuck, it’s- he needs those kisses, okay?

Billy’s apartment is in one of those buildings that were built in the 60’s, the ones with the promise of hundreds of families flocking to the new Hawkins. No one really lives there, now. Except for that old lady who no one remembers but who’s always lived in dear ole’ Hawkins, and that polish guy who never talks to anyone in english except for Joyce, apparently. Except for Billy. Billy who got his apartment from people in suits and lab coats, who doesn’t leave it more than he really has to. And apparently, he _has_ to go to Family Video every Tuesday, _has_ to drive the kids to the arcade every Saturday.

The door’s locked, bolted shut, but it only takes a knock and half a second for Billy to swing it open.

“Hey”, and he’s breathless, voice rough but soft, still hoarse from whatever the doctors did to him to keep him alive after last summer.

“Hi, Bill”, and it comes easy, that big smile, the one Billy always calls _real_ pretty. Even though his lip stretches and tugs at where it’s split from him biting and biting and _biting_ to keep sobs in when he’s next to Billy, burrowed down in soft sheets that feel like vines wrapping themselves all ‘round him.

“I’ve already got popcorn, I lubed ‘em up all gross like you like it”, and it’s a _thing_ , the way Billy calls shit lube when it’s not, a thing that’s so _stupid_ and so young that it always makes his chest fucking glow. ‘Cause there’s some part of Billy that can still be young, still be childish. Even after so much got taken away.

“You’re gross”, and it makes Billy laugh, makes him press that laugh right into Steve’s lips, in the doorway of his apartment, the one they pretty much share, even though they’ve never said it.

His hands are still shaking when he pushes in the VHS, blames it on the way he’s laughing along with Billy’s _did you even_ look _at the cover? You got the hots for Ringwald, or something?_

They still put on the stupid movie, ‘cause their movie nights aren’t really all ‘bout the movie. The movie is all about high school and love and pink, and Billy keeps finding shit to point out, keeps nudging at him, and his hands keep fucking _shaking_.

“-ey, _hey_ , you okay?”, and he’s been staring at the water stain right next to the TV set, eyes locked on something unmoving, trying to get his hands and mind to just stop moving.

“Huh?”, And he knows what he said, ‘cause everyone around him keeps _asking_ him that like he has _any_ right not to be.

“Are you okay? You totally zoned out”, and yeah, the credits are rolling, cheesy music that he knows Billy hates with his whole still beating heart playing in the background.

“Yeah, I’m fine”, and he is, he’s _fine_ , but he can hear himself breathing, can feel his heart beating too hard in his chest. Feels his hands shaking, bites down his nails into his palms to get them to _stop_.

“You always are, aren’t you?”, and it’s low, it’s a mumble, like Billy does when he wants to say something but feels like he has to keep it down, keep _quiet_.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”, and he doesn’t get it, doesn’t get why Billy’s jaw is working like that, why his hands are twined together in his lap like that.

“You’re always fine, shit, you _always_ say that”, and those blue eyes are on him, all big and pleading, looking at him like he’s supposed to- supposed to fucking _get_ something.

“And, what, it’s _bad_ that I’m fine? I don’t get it”, and it’s- the whole thing hits too close, cuts too deep. Feels like too many dinners from before, from when he was _dumb_ enough to still ask stupid questions like that.

“I just- I need you to know that you don’t _have_ to be? I get that it, it’s gonna take you a while to _trust_ me, but you don’t have to lie to me”, and he sounds _upset_ , sounds worked up about it like Steve hasn’t been doing him a damn favor. Like he’s been- Steve’s been telling the _truth_ , ‘cause he’s fine, always is. _You have nothing to whine about, son._

“I’m not lying, why can’t people believe me, I’m fucking _fine_ ”, and he is, _has_ to be, has no right crying about nightmares and a dad who forgot his birthday when- when it’s _nothing_ , compared to what’s happened to the people he _loves_.

“Really? You’re fine? When’s the last time you slept, Steve? Do you seriously think I don’t notice that you don’t fucking sleep, or anythin’?”, and it’s fucking- it’s not _fair_ , to bring up shit when they’re fine, to dredge stuff up like he’s trying to prove a point.

“So? It’s not- it’s _nothing_ , okay? I’m okay”, and he is, he’s okay and his heart his beating fast and Billy’s eyes are so _blue_ and the static of the TV is too bright.

“Fuck, I’m your, I’m your _boyfriend_ , you don’t have to do that. You can talk to me”, it’s a lot, and it’s- it’s not- he doesn’t have anything to talk about, with his _boyfriend_ who’s come a long fucking way, who calls himself his _boyfriend_ without question, now. It’s heady, even when he feels all outta place on Billy’s ratty couch, ‘cause Billy’s not letting this go like you’re _supposed_ to, keeps pushing and _pushing_ like they’re not _fine_.

“There’s nothing to talk about, why does there always have to be something to fucking talk about? Just- don’t do that”, _don’t push, don’t mention shit like that_. He knows better, knows he’s not supposed to go crying about shit when life is just hard, _life has done you good, son._

“I’m fucking _worried_ , shit, Buckley is too. You can’t, you can’t pretend, it’s not good, baby”, and it makes him- they’re _ganging_ up on him, and he just- he appreciates the friends he has that are too fourteen and too caught up in their just starting lives to _do_ this.

“Great, so what, you just decide I need a fucking intervention or something? You don’t have to- I’m fine, I don’t- I don’t have any reason not to be”, and he _doesn’t_ , doesn’t have a reason to feel like he’s about to cry, right there, on the couch they’d usually be fucking on, by then.

“That’s- shit, you _do_ , though. And you don’t _need_ one, what the fuck, Steve. You don’t need some fuckin’ permit to be allowed to not be okay, I need you to tell me you know that”, and he sounds so damn _upset_ , sounds like he’s begging him to do something, like he wants all Steve’s bullshit dumped on him like- like he’s not meant to be _big smile_ Steve and _good boyfriend_ Steve and _happy_ Steve.

“My life is _good_ , and that’s- I wasn’t _affected_ by this shit, not like you and Will and El, shit, it’s not- it’s not my-“, it’s not his thing to _cry_ about, to still think about even though the monsters are gone for _good_ and everyone else is doing _fine_.

“Steve, just, take a breath? Don’t- don’t do that. You don’t have to talk to me, but shit, don’t hide, not from me, _please_ ”, and those eyes are so clear, all wet and big and- and it’s just. It’s too much. It’s too much and Billy keeps pushing and _pushing_ and the sharpness of his nails in his skin isn’t enough to keep him grounded. Keep him _fine_.

“Shit, Billy-“, and his voice breaks, right in the middle, breaks like his- like his fucking mind, and the leather of Billy’s couch is too much on his skin, the air too much in his lungs. Or not enough, maybe. And he’s- he’s _crying_ , he knows he is, cheeks all hot and blotchy and chest heaving and-

“I got you, I got you, baby”, and Billy’s wrapped all around him, caging him in like he dreams the upside down would do, but safe. _Different_. He’s humming, talking and saying shit Steve can’t take in, ‘cause he can’t _breathe_ , throat working and snot smearing all over Billy’s tee in a way that’s totally gross and not- not _okay_. “I’ve got you”

“I don’t know- I don’t-“, he can’t really talk, voice all fucked out and hoarse and _gross_ , but Billy just shushes him, hands rubbing down his back, under his t-shirt all soft, all _I’ve got you._

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, curled into Billy, crying over shit he can’t explain, spiraling outta control thanks to pushing and _pushing_ and always being _fine_ when he’s- when he’s _not_.

“Shit, I made your shirt all gross”, and it takes him a while to find his voice, to feel _human_ and not shaky enough to heave himself up, catch those blue eyes, not really knowing what to find there. They’re soft.

“It’s cool, Stevie”, and it’s a new one, _Stevie_. At least new when Billy’s not balls deep in him, nose buried in the nape of his neck, body caging him into a mattress that creaks way too much.

“Uhm, thanks”, and he feels weird, off kilter and _bared_ , and he’s never done this. Never cried like that, with someone. Never let out without biting down to keep it all _quiet_.

“Just- it’s okay, y’know? You’re allowed to feel like this, to cry your eyes out if ya need to, I’m here for you”, and he’s so _soft_ , so calm and beautiful and _his_ , and it’s- it’s more than Steve ever thought he’d get.

“I- I just- I don’t have any reason to, to need that. I don’t know why I’m just- I’m just fucked up? And I shouldn’t keep putting this shit on you, it’s not- it’s not _okay_ -“, and he’s so tired, all worn out, but he’s still- he’s still all worked up, even when he’s got Billy’s arms wrapped tight ‘round him, legs tangled together.

“No, hey, come on. You don’t put anything on me, you don’t. I’m- it’s just how this works, okay? You slept in that ugly hospital chair for days ‘cause I was too ‘fraid to sleep on my own. And that’s- you did that without thinkin’, and I’m doin’ this for you, yeah? I fuckin’ _care_ about you, Steve”, he sounds so _honest_ , so worked up ‘bout it that it makes his eyes a little wet, again. ‘Cause Billy cares so _much_ , tried not to for so long, and now they’re here. And they’re- they’re _fine_ , even when Steve’s not.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s just- you have shit to be scared of, shit to cry about. I don’t, I never _have_ but I keep, I keep whining about it like- it’s, it’s _unbecoming_ ”, and it’s- it’s what his mom said, back then, back when she was home to see him cry and thrash and ask about why there’s new plates and mugs every other week.

“ _Shit_ , pretty boy. They’re wrong, they’re _wrong_ and you- you need to- you’re allowed to be _human_ , I need you to know that”, and he knows, knows who _they_ are, knows Billy’s putting two and two together all quick in his head, and it’s- it feels good to hear, even if it feels weird, feels _wrong_.

“I just- I don’t wanna hide from you, I wanna be _good_ ”, he just wants to be _good boyfriend_ Steve, wants to see Billy smile and laugh and wink and be happy, doesn’t wanna bring all that down with his _bullshit_.

“You are good, you’re so good. You gotta be _real_ , though. I’m with ya’ through the good and the bad”, and it’s- it’s something _else_ , and it just- he kinda _loves_ him, kinda falls just a little more, ‘cause Billy’s talking all soft and looking at him softer, tucking strands of too long hair behind his ears, wiping away tears with calloused fingers.

He doesn’t know what to _say_ , can’t really think about anything, ‘cause his throat is all scratchy and his head is ringing from too loud and not enough noise and everything in between. He kisses him instead, soft. A press of lips against Billy’s soft ones, peppermint chapstick familiar and nice against his own chapped ones. Billy sighs against him, doesn’t even care that Steve’s snot faced and all freshly cried, just kisses him right back.

“Come on, I’ll take you to bed”, and it’s said right against his lips, strong arms pulling him up with Billy, keeping him all secure. And it’s- it feels safe, being tucked under Billy’s chin even though he’s taller. Even though he should be fine, _needs_ to be fine.

Bed is soft and it’s _home_ and it’s _Billy_ , helping him outta his jeans like he can’t do it himself, giving him the soft band tee Billy sleeps in, usually. It’s Billy forcing him to drink a glass of water, ‘cause he needs to stay _hydrated_. It’s Billy shuffling outta his sweats, tugging on one of Steve’s hoodies, hood over his just curling hair, drawstrings pulled tight just to make Steve giggle all tired and slow. It’s pillows that are too cheap but soft from tear, a comforter pulled up high even though Billy runs hot, ‘cause Steve needs to be real warm, to fall asleep without feeling like he’s stuck underground, _cold_.

Steve Harrington is not always okay.

But he’s got a _home_ and he’s got people he lives to see smile, people who keep him close and always tug him _closer_. He’s got Robs calling him a _dingus_ and forcing him to talk to her _forreal_ all in the same breath. He’s got the kids, bringing him cookies in Tupperware they stole from their moms or Steve’s own kitchen. He’s got Billy, hugging him _close_ , kissing the shell of his ear. Telling him that he’s _only human_ , that he’s gonna be okay. That he’s safe.


End file.
